


Hail Mary

by pianoforeplay



Series: QB 'Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 114,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years since becoming the first openly gay coach of a Division I collegiate football team, Jensen Ackles is hired by the Dallas Cowboys as their new quarterbacks coach. Though happy to return to his hometown and eager to return to the NFL, Jensen's new position puts him directly in charge of former teammate, Jared Padalecki, with whom Jensen had a somewhat complicated personal relationship ten years before. Jensen also finds his new position comes with a price when the organization makes it clear they intend to use Jensen's sexual orientation to further their own status. When an old high school friend steps back into Jensen's life, the situation becomes increasingly complicated as Jensen struggles to balance his professional life with his private while attempting to control his reawakening feelings for Padalecki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Archive warnings do not apply to this, but there's a heavy theme of past infidelity. Also, this fic picks up ten years following the end of Next Man Up, meaning the year is 2020. For the most part, I wanted to make the future thing largely unnoticeable. As in, I didn't want references of technological advancements, politics and pop culture to be too overwhelming for fear of it taking away from the true heart of the story. That said, there are some references to new technology that may seem a bit off as well as unrecognizable names of people, films and TV shows. They're intentional! Really! And hopefully they don't take away from the story.
> 
> Amazing artwork created for this story [can be viewed here.](http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/26732.html)
> 
> Initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/37818.html) on 6/28/2010.

  
_In the fourth quarter of the 1976 divisional playoff game, with the Dallas Cowboys trailing the Minnesota Vikings by four points and less than half a minute remaining in the game, Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach threw a 50-yard desperation pass to his receiver, Drew Pearson. Pearson caught the ball between his side and elbow and ran it into the end zone to win the game. In the locker room afterward, reporters swarmed the star quarterback to ask about the miraculous, game-ending play. Staubach simply responded, "I closed my eyes and said a Hail Mary."_   


He gets the call on a Tuesday morning in February while still damp from his post-gym shower and guzzling down a glass of juice. The TV is blaring from the other room, something on Discovery or A&E, Jensen isn't not really sure. His phone buzzes on the countertop and Mike's ugly mug flashes across the screen, bright, toothy smile nearly obscured by the two thumbs he's holding up in front of his face. He looks like a used car salesman, which Jensen figures is exactly the point.

Jensen doesn't answer right away, just lets the phone vibrate in his hand for a few seconds. There's only one reason for Mike to be calling him right now and Jensen sucks in a breath before connecting.

"Hey."

"Hey!" Mike says, all smarmy exuberance and rushed words. "Jenny! Baby! How's it goin', man, I got some good news for you."

"Mmm," Jensen replies, feigning mild disinterest however pointless it may be. "How good?"

"Good. Really damn good. Two-years-and-a-cool-million good."

Jensen swallows and leans back until his ass hits the edge of the counter. Takes a second to find his voice again.

"That's-- yeah, that's pretty good."

"It's not finalized yet, but that's around what they're talking. I scheduled a meeting for tomorrow afternoon with Kripke and Jones so you gotta get your ass down to Dallas. We play our cards right and I might be able to squeeze out even more."

Jensen makes a noise at that, a choked laugh of bemusement as he shakes his head.

"I'm not kidding," Mike says. "They want you, man. Like, _really_ want you. Still can't figure out _why_ , but hey, who am I to judge?"

"Fuck you," Jensen says, not bothering to keep back his grin.

"How many times I gotta tell you, dude? I'm flattered, really, but I just don't swing that way. Sorry to disappoint."

"Mmm. I'm crushed."

"Oh, by the way," Mike continues, tone shifting slightly. "The whole gay thing came up a couple times. I don't think it's gonna be an issue."

"Gay thing," Jensen echoes dully. "Nice."

"Yes, _gay thing_. You got a better name for it?" Jensen opens his mouth to respond, but Mike doesn't give him the chance, already cutting in with, "Anyway, I got the impression they really don't care. Old news, I guess."

"Hmm," Jensen says, doubt coloring his tone.

He should be relieved, probably. But if anything, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I suggest keeping it quiet tomorrow," Mike continues. "It's not like they don't know. No use aggravating the issue. Morgan's really pulling for you in this. Don't fuck it up, alright?"

  


Jensen stays in Dallas for a few days while the ink on the contract dries, just long enough to touch base with his parents and spend some time with his nephews. They're both currently playing video games in the front room, their shouts of both victory and defeat carrying into the kitchen where Jensen's grabbing himself a beer.

"So," Josh says, eying him from the other side of the room. "Back in Big D. You ready?"

Jensen pulls a bottle opener magnet off the fridge and rests back against the counter as he opens his beer. "Ready as I'm gonna be, I guess."

"You see Mom and Dad yet?"

"Took 'em out to dinner the other night," Jensen says, bottle held against his chest. "Wasn't too bad."

Which is his way of saying they hadn't talked about it. They never do. It's been four years since he told his parents the truth and they've barely spoken a word of it since. Jensen's found he's actually pretty fine with that; the less they know about his sex life, the better.

Josh nods, quiet again for a long moment before he smiles and shakes his head. "You keep comin' back, man. Think maybe this time it's for good?"

"Maybe," Jensen replies and then shrugs, lips quirking into a half-grin. "Probably not."

"Hate us that much, huh?"

"Absolutely."

Josh laughs, quiet and warm. "Dude, this place has gotta be better than _Ohio_."

"Mmm, watch it," Jensen admonishes, swallowing another sip of beer and pointing the lip of the bottle at his brother. "Ohio's been pretty damn good to me."

They head back into the other room, Jensen fitting in on the couch next to Brodie.

Brodie makes a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen, lips tugged into a frown of concentration. "You aren't leaving yet, are you?" he asks, sounding a little distracted as Logan tries to take out his character on the screen in a rain of gunfire. "Logan! Stop it, you jerk!"

"Soon," Jensen tells him as Brodie manages to shoot his brother in the arm. "But I'll be back."

Still pouting, Brodie darts Jensen a quick glance before turning his attention back to the television. "Promise?"

Jensen smiles to himself and reaches out to give his nephew's shirt a light tug. "Yeah, buddy. I promise."

:::

The movers arrive on his birthday and have the whole place packed up in less than a day, which Jensen figures is the best gift he could've gotten all things considered. He packs up a few boxes of the more valuable things himself along with three bags of clothes and toiletries, enough to last him for the next few weeks. Loads it all into the trunk and backseat of his car and drives south.

He arrives in Dallas two days later and, after only another few days of getting settled into his new house, he officially starts his job.

He gets his own office at Valley Ranch and if that isn't a head trip, he doesn't know what is. There's a meeting scheduled already for the afternoon, noted for him on the giant whiteboard just inside his door. Jensen smirks at the unfamiliar scrawl and then wipes his finger along the empty shelf along the other wall. The wood is a deep mahogany, smooth and dust-free under his touch.

Taking a seat at his desk, Jensen starts inspecting the drawers, arranging and re-arranging the few items already left there for him before flipping on his computer.

"Jensen _fuckin'_ Ackles. Well, holy shit."

"Jeff," Jensen says, pushing to his feet with a smile. Jeff wraps him in a firm hug, hands thumping his back before resting warm on his shoulders.

"Not sure which I should say first, congratulations or welcome back."

Jensen laughs. "Good to see you, too," he says and Jeff gives his shoulder one last squeeze before letting go.

"You take a tour of the place yet? Should look a little different from the last time you were here."

"Yeah, they showed me around when I was out here a few weeks ago," he says. "The new field looks nice."

Jeff smirks. "Well, we haven't had any cave-ins yet, so that's a plus."

"Mmm," Jensen echoes with his own faint grin. "Yet."

Jeff is still all smiles, still watching Jensen like he can't quite believe he's really there. Then he says, "So what'd I tell ya, huh? Knew Kripke'd piss himself at the idea of getting you onboard."

"Yeah, that's, uh," he starts, breaking off into a slightly nervous laugh. "Honestly, I was pretty surprised."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Jensen only arches an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" Jeff says before his lips twitch into another faint smile and he rolls his eyes. "You think Krip gives a shit about any of that? You're a phenomenal coach, Jensen. That's all that matters."

Jensen frowns a little, not ready to concede. He's good, but he's still young, still has plenty of time to fuck it all up. And if there's anything he's learned in the past few years, it's that being a good coach is definitely not all that matters. Things are maybe better than they used to be, but the fact that he still has a career at all feels something just shy of a miracle.

"I'm not the only one who can do this job," he says eventually, though it's not really the point.

But Jeff only laughs again, eyes sparkling. "Yeah, actually. You are."

:::

His first meeting starts out as more of a reunion. Kripke, Jeff, Beaver, Dat, Whitfield... all the guys he used to play for once upon a time, are there to greet him with wide smiles and warm handshakes, though Jensen doesn't fail to miss the way a few of the unfamiliar faces give him a slightly wider berth.

They settle down within a few minutes and get to business, Coach Kripke and Doug Farish, the team's head scout, leading the way. By the end of the meeting, Jensen has four sheets of notes, a detailed manual of draft-eligible college players pre-highlighted and annotated, and a list of eight Pro Days he's expected to attend over the course of the next month. The first one, at Auburn University, is scheduled for Wednesday.

Already, it's a far cry from anything he'd done at OSU.

"I'll have Alona book our flight and hotel reservations," Doug tells Jensen after they've wrapped up. "You gonna be good to head out tomorrow night?"

Jensen holds the binder of notes against his chest. "Think I can manage," he says, trying to appear much more certain than he feels.

"Good," Doug says, still all business. "Figure you can find your own way to the airport, right?"

"Of course."

Doug answers with another nod, eyes narrowed. Jensen gets the impression he's being studied, carefully assessed, and he instinctively stands up a little straighter. But then Doug shakes his head and gathers the rest of his papers, muttering something under his breath Jensen can't quite hear. He's pretty sure he gets the gist, though.

It's really nothing he hadn't expected.

:::

"Four-point-four-five," Jensen calls out as USC's star quarterback, Jeremiah Hughes, crosses the marker. He types the number into his electronic pad and lets out a low, appreciative whistle as it flies to the top of the list.

Hughes slows to a walk, hands resting on his hips and smiling in smug self-satisfaction as he catches his breath.

"Good, right?" he says, squinting against the sun.

Jensen flashes him a smile. "Not bad," he jokes. It's one of the best times he's ever seen for a QB and they both know it. "Couldn't hurt to try best outta three."

The kid laughs, bright white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin. "Gimme a minute," he says, playing right along. "I'll blow your mind, man. You'll see."

"I bet you will," Jensen grins, typing in a few more notes and making sure to comment on the guy's clear confidence, which could turn out either good or a bad depending on how it develops. "Go get some water and we'll check out your broad jump," he says, pocketing the small device and then making his way to the other side of the field where USC's defensive back is finishing up.

Campo's there, a pen stylus stuck between his teeth and brow furrowed as he studies his notes.

"Hughes is up next," Jensen tells him, pulling his cap off to wipe away the sweat collecting on his forehead before shoving it back on. "How we doing on defense?"

"Decent," Campo replies, keeping his voice low. "Not stellar. Don't think we're really seeing their best out here."

Jensen nods, drags his thumb along his bottom lip. "Think they know it."

"If they got any sense in their heads, they do," Campo mutters.

"Jensen, can I speak with you for a minute?"

Jensen looks over to see Doug Farish standing a few yards away, e-board tucked under one arm and cap pulled down low. Ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut, Jensen nods and starts over, follows Doug beyond the field to a stretch of empty cement near the bleachers.

Doug's neck is red at the nape and there's a dark sweat line down the center of his back. He rests his hands on his hips and doesn't say a word for a long moment. Just stares down at the ground like he's carefully considering his words.

Jensen waits it out, watches the guy brush a finger under his nose before squinting out across the field, lips pursed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing out there, Ackles?" he says finally, attention still focused across the field.

"Uh," Jensen replies, confusion creeping in slow. "My job?"

"What you do off the field is your own business, but this isn't the time or place for fraternization. While you're out here, on this field, you have a job to do and I expect you to do it with full professionalism," he continues, voice pitched low, but clear. "This isn't a nightclub or your own personal meat market. This is a business. Act like it."

Jensen feels his cheeks flush hot, mortified and offended in equal amounts. Doug still won't even look at him, eyes trained on the field as he licks his lips.

Finally, he cuts Jensen a glance, eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat as he says, "Do I make myself clear?"

But he doesn't wait for a response. Just walks away, leaving Jensen gaping in his wake, practically shaking with a low tremor of indignant rage before he manages to pull in a quick breath and brush a hand over his face. Swallowing back the muted humiliation, he jogs back onto the field.

Hughes lands an 8'08" on the broad jump and Jensen spends the last hour of the day writing up his analysis. Not that they'll likely have a chance in hell of landing the kid in the draft, but just in case.

Doug doesn't say a word to him for the rest of the day and Jensen catches a flight to Oregon the next morning.

When they all meet up again in Dallas a week later, it's business as usual. Doug offers no apology. Jensen knows better than to ask for one.

:::

Despite retiring years ago, Jensen still strives to stay in shape. His regime is different these days, much more low-key than when he'd been in the league. But he still straps on a knee brace to run a couple miles nearly every day and spends a good few hours of his week in the weight room at Valley Ranch. Which is where he is the first time he sees Jared.

It's a Monday morning. Mid-April. Jensen has an offensive coaches meeting at 10:00 and he's killing time until then working off some excess energy. He's on the pec fly machine, shirt sticking to his skin and muscles thrumming pleasantly when the door swings open to let in a wave of laughter.

"No, it was good, I swear!"

"You're lyin'. You're lyin' 'cause you don't wanna face up to the fact that you _chose_ to see a shitty movie. And it was just as bad as you knew it'd be."

"It has Zac Efron," another voice points out, low and amused. Familiar. "Can't be all that bad."

"Shit, you can't-- nuh-uh. No. _Hell_ , no. _Zac Efron_? What?"

Jensen's in the middle of his third round of reps, blinking back sweat when Jared comes into view, flanked on either side by Aldis Hodge and Jake Abel. His stomach tightens and he grits his teeth as he pushes his arms together.

"Dude, shut up, you loved that _Paris is Burning_ movie."

"It had Kimberly Phillips blowin' shit up! What's not to like about that?"

Jared laughs, pulls the towel off his shoulder and tosses it onto a bench. Says, "Yeah, I'm sure the explosions are definitely what drew you in," just as his gaze catches Jensen's.

There's about ten yards between them and Jensen feels pinned to the spot as the smile curving Jared's face sticks for half a second and then fades little by little, eyes widening. He's somehow even bigger than Jensen remembers, filled out in every way, work-out tank stretched across wide, thick shoulders and hanging loose around his narrow waist. His hair's shorter than Jensen had expected, tamer than he remembers.

The smile's the same.

Jensen finishes his last rep and drops his arms, leans forward as he wipes the back of his hand along his jaw, then tries his best for a smile.

"Hey."

His voice catches the attention of the other two, their argument momentarily halted as they turn.

Aldis breaks into a bright, blinding smile. "Holy shit. Holy _shit_ , Jensen Ackles. How the hell you been, man?" he says, taking a few long steps forward as Jensen pushes up to his feet and finds himself wrapped in a one-armed hug. "I was wonderin' when you were gonna show your face 'round here."

"They've been keeping me busy," Jensen says as Aldis's hand rests on his shoulder. "Just got back from IU the other day. Out looking at some prospects."

"Lookin' for some Sasquatch replacements, you mean," Aldis says and Jensen glances over to Jared again, doesn't miss the way his old friend's smile looks more than a little strained.

"He's gonna be lookin' for a long time if that's the case," Jared says with all the easy confidence Jensen remembers.

Jensen swallows and then quickly turns his attention to Jake, the team's fifth year tight end. He holds out his hand. "Hey, I'm Jensen. Nice to meet you."

"Jake," the kid says, taking his hand in a firm grip, though his smile doesn't look nearly so genuine. "New QB coach, right?"

"That's right."

"Cool," he says before taking a step back to stand just a few feet behind Aldis's shoulder, watching carefully.

Jared steps up then and reaches past Aldis to shake Jensen's hand. "Hey, welcome back," he says. "It's good to see you again." It sounds somehow wrong, overly formal and polite.

But Jensen smiles all the same, cocks his head to one side. "Yeah, we'll see if you feel that way in about a month or so."

Jared lets out a quick breath, lips twitching into something just shy of a smile. "Hey, man, gimme a little credit here," he says, muscles in his shoulders relaxing as he steps back. "I'm way better than the last time you saw me."

"Right, of course, Mr. Pro Bowl five times over. I got the memo."

"Six, actually," Jared says, one dimple flashing. "Got an alternate spot a couple years back."

Aldis rolls his eyes. "Shit, man, where's the love for your number one receiver?" he says, clearly joking as he nudges Jared with his elbow. "Think you'd a gotten anywhere without my thousand yard seasons?"

"Think you would've gotten any of those thousand yard seasons without _me_ ," Jared shoots right back.

"Seven Pro Bowls right here," Aldis says, one arm held high. " _Se-ven_."

"Right, and how many of those were in the last three years?" Jared says, head tilted and smile wide. "Oh, I think... no, wait, it's... yeah, that would be _ze-ro_."

Aldis gives him a shove, just hard enough to send Jared stumbling back a step or two, but he's still smiling and shaking his head. "Fuck you, we got a deeper pool," he says, though he's clearly not taking offense. "There's, like, four times as many of us as you pansy-ass QBs."

"So many excuses, dude. So _many_."

"This is my year, man. Just keep throwin' me those balls and you'll see."

Jensen grins as he rests a hand on Aldis's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Well I, for one, am planning on holding you to that," he says.

"You want it in writing?" Aldis says, making a show of looking around. "Any one got a pen around here?"

"Maybe later," Jensen says on another quiet laugh before nodding toward the far door. "I'm gonna go get cleaned up. I have a meeting soon and they expect me to show up not smelling like one of you losers."

Aldis arches an eyebrow and then sniffs at his armpit. "Can't speak for these two, but I smell like roses," he says.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jensen laughs, grabbing his sweat towel and draping it over his shoulder before bumping his elbow against Aldis's in a goodbye. "I'll see you around."

"Hey, do me a favor and tell Whitfield you saw me in here," Aldis calls out as Jensen starts heading for the door. "Tell him I definitely look like I've dropped five pounds!"

"You got it," Jensen replies, still grinning.

He's nearly to the door when he hears Jared again, just loud enough to get Jensen's attention: "Hey, Coach!"

Jensen turns back, one hand on the metal push handle and eyebrow arched. It's not the first time anyone's called him that, not by a long shot, but it sounds different in Jared's voice. It'll take some getting used to.

Jared tips his head forward in a nod, lips still twisted into a grin that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Welcome back," he says, quieter, though it rings loud in Jensen's ears.

He refuses to let himself read too much into it.

:::

Jensen's primary job until draft day is to help Kripke and the rest of the coaching staff analyze and narrow down their player choices. He has in-depth bios and stat sheets on each of the top twenty draft-eligible QBs, which he spends hours in his office arranging and rearranging from those with the most potential to those with the least.

It's tiring work, Jensen's list changing minute to minute and he's more than a little relieved when a familiar voice pulls him free of the monotony.

"You find us our new hotshot QB yet?"

Jeff's standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket and a warm grin on his face and he doesn't bother to ask if he can come in, just closes the door behind him as Jensen sifts through his stack of papers.

"This one," Jensen says, flipping over the face of Damon Porter, senior out of Auburn. The kid has a bright, toothy smile and large, dark eyes. He looks younger than his twenty-three years, hopeful and eager to tackle his future. There's a scar on his chin and, while Jensen doesn't yet know the story behind it, he does know Damon is the youngest of five brothers and figures he can hazard a guess.

"Porter," Jeff says, pulling out the chair opposite Jensen's desk. He stretches, hands behind his head, and regards Jensen with a quiet smile. "Interesting. Convince me."

"He has a lower passer rating than a lot of the others," Jensen says. "Looks pretty mediocre if you just go by the stats. But," he adds, smiling a little as he folds his hands together, "the stats don't show what he does in the backfield, the way he reads the defense. Kid has a mind for the game, no question. Give him a decent O-line to buy him time and he'll make the play."

Jeff seems to consider it for a minute, smile unwavering before he nods. "Weaknesses?"

"Well, youth, obviously. And he's used to working in the shotgun, hasn't done much T or I yet. He's been working with Dale down there for the past month or so, though. No real experience yet, but he's been studying."

"You talked to Dale?"

Jensen nods. "Guy really talked him up, too. Team player, real leadership qualities, diamond in the rough, all that shit."

"And you believe him?"

"About as much as I believe the rest of 'em," Jensen says with an easy shrug.

Propping his feet up on Jensen's desk, Jeff sinks back into the chair, rubs a hand over the scruff of his beard and laughs quietly up at the ceiling. "Okay, so Damon Porter. Who else?"

Jensen doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches Jeff with narrowed eyes as his lips curve into a grin. "Why? You know all this already."

Jeff lifts his head, mirroring Jensen's smirk.

"This a quiz or something?"

"Something," Jeff replies. And then shrugs. "And it's always good to get a second opinion."

Jensen resists the urge to roll his eyes and pulls in a breath. He and Jeff spend the next twenty minutes debating the pros and cons of a handful of top quarterback prospects, picking each one apart on strengths and weaknesses, what aspects of their personality will translate well to the NFL and which may not.

"To be honest, I can work with whatever you give me," Jensen says after awhile. "I'm just saying that with what we have and what we're looking for, Porter's our guy."

"And you're not just saying that because he's good looking?"

Jensen blinks, confused for half a second before Jeff's lips twitch into a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's a joke, he can _see_ it's a joke. But it still cuts a little too close, grazes the edge of a topic Jensen's still not comfortable addressing in any kind of work setting. He does his best to push it down, forces a quiet, strained smile to his face.

"Not my type."

Jeff arches an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn't respond for a long moment. It's more than a little unnerving, but Jensen stubbornly holds his own. Waits it out.

"Mmm," Jeff finally says, still watching him carefully before he sits up, hands folded over his lap. "So, I had a word with Farish the other week."

Jensen's fairly sure he already knows where this is headed and he tenses slightly in anticipation, though he's careful to keep his expression entirely neutral. "Yeah? And?"

"Well, he brought up a few interesting points and I thought it might be good to get your side of things."

"My side."

"He just mentioned you might be getting a little too friendly with some of the prospects. Joking around a little more than necessary, maybe flirting some."

Jensen huffs a laugh, unsure whether to be insulted or genuinely amused. " _Flirting?_ "

"Relax," Jeff says, holding up one hand. "He didn't actually use that word, but the implication was pretty clear. And I'm not saying I believe him."

Jensen's jaw clenches.

"I know you, Jensen. I don't doubt your professionalism for a second, but there are still people in this league, people on this _team_ , who will."

"Maybe you should've thought of that when you hired me."

"Oh, trust me, we did." Jensen's frown doesn't waver, nerves still buzzing under his skin as Jeff continues. "You know this business, Jensen. You've lived it one way or another for nearly half your life. Do you really think we just ignored the fact that you're gay? That's not the way this sport works and you know it."

Somehow, Jensen gets the impression Jeff's little speech is meant to make him feel better. It doesn't.

"Spit it out, Jeff."

Jeff pulls in a breath and scratches his beard, gaze flicking away for a second.

"I'm saying... look, Doug isn't the only bigoted asshole on this team. Not by a long shot. You know that, I know that; it's not a secret. Most of them don't know anything about you aside from what they've read and heard on the news, what little bits and pieces other people have told them. They're good ol' boys, Jen. Set in their ways. You could be the next Bear Bryant and they'd still want you gone."

It's nothing Jensen doesn't already know, nothing he hasn't _lived_ for the past three years and he barely refrains from rolling his eyes as he makes a sideways circular motion with one hand, a clear indication for Jeff to get to the point.

Jeff smirks, only faintly amused. "What I'm saying is that you have nothing to prove to them. Nothing you _could_ prove. Whatever you do, however good you are, it doesn't mean a goddamn thing to them." He quiets then, but his eyes stay trained on Jensen, holding him there. "But it does matter to someone. Maybe a guy on this team, a player or assistant or ball boy or whatever. Maybe just some kid on the street."

Jensen swallows, stomach still twisted tight. Because he gets what Jeff's saying, knows full-well there are people out there who emulate him to some degree. Gay men and women who applaud him for coming out in the same breath they berate him for not being more of a spokesman for their cause. It's an argument that's hounded him for years, but his stance hasn't wavered and he doesn't foresee that changing.

"For the most part, man, this isn't a progressive team. I mean, hell, we're in Texas. Even if _we_ know better, the rest of the country thinks we're a bunch of Bible-thumping, rednecked hicks."

It's a slow sort of realization then, the pieces gradually clicking into place one by one and Jensen lets out a soft laugh, rubs a wide hand over his face.

"I can't believe this," he says, words muffled against the meat of his palm before he drops his hand away. "You hired me because I'm gay."

"No," Jeff says, lips twisted into a grimace as he scoots closer to the edge of the chair. "We hired you because you're a damn good coach. And because half of us have already worked with you, know you, and trust you."

"You're using me."

Jeff laughs at that, a sharp grating sound. "Football's a strategic military operation, Jensen. Of course we're using you."

"This is my personal life we're talking about," Jensen amends, his earlier trepidation quickly morphing into simmering anger. "I'm a football coach, not a poster boy for gay rights. What happened to my sexual orientation not being an issue, huh? You're _making_ it an issue!"

"Hey, hey, whoa," Jeff says, quiet and quick. "Back up. No one's forcing you on any gay pride floats. This isn't about starting some kind of equal rights campaign."

Unconvinced, Jensen's irritation doesn't waver. He can see where this is going. There hadn't been any hint of it in his contract, both sides carefully ignoring the huge, pink elephant in the room in order to make the deal. And now that other shoe is finally falling.

"It's nothing big," Jeff continues, trying for an easy smile once more. "Just a couple interviews here and there, maybe an appearance at a function or two before the season starts. Not much more than you'd do ordinarily."

Jensen's lips purse and he shakes his head again. "You're marketing me."

"We're capitalizing. Football's a business, Jensen. And yes, your job here is to coach; that's what you signed on for. But you have an _opportunity_ here and I think it would be both negligent and selfish to ignore it."

" _Selfish?_ "

"Yes. Selfish. You have any fucking _idea_ how many guys there are in this league who still feel they have to hide who and what they are? Westwick knocked down some barriers when he came out, but his career plummeted shortly thereafter. Yours sky-rocketed."

"I'm not a player," Jensen argues. "Hell, I wasn't even in the _league_!"

"Well, you are now. And you're paving a road whether you want to or not."

Jensen's still practically seething, hands balled into fists as he glares at Jeff. He feels oddly betrayed, fucked over by the one person in the entire goddamn system he thought he could trust.

And it's all the more frustrating because he knows that on at least some level, Jeff's _right_.

"I'm not saying you should put this at the forefront," Jeff says, voice pitched lower as he slowly pushes to his feet. "Like I said, we hired you to coach."

Jensen doesn't turn to watch him go, only glares at the empty space he leaves behind and listens for the sound of the doorknob turning.

"But you're in a prime position here to make a real difference so just... think about it."

Jeff closes the door quietly behind him and Jensen doesn't exhale until moments later. His shoulders sag as the tension drains away and he drops his elbows down onto his desk, rests his face in his hands.

He's less than two months into the job, has yet to even step foot onto a practice field and already he's remembering why he left in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

Brodie's birthday party is the first weekend of May and Jensen shows up with a gift under one arm and a two gallon tub of mint chocolate ice cream in the other.

"Oh, Jensen, thank God," Allie says the second he steps into the kitchen. "Thanks for grabbing the ice cream. Josh is outside with the kids and your parents should be here any minute. Can you take over cookie-frosting duties for a second while I run to the bathroom?"

Jensen spends the next three hours alternating between dishing out cookie refills and ice cream fixes and playing touch football in the backyard with a dozen pre-teens. Jensen has Brodie on his team and he makes sure they win, which has as much to do with Josh and Logan being on the opposite team as it does with it being Brodie's birthday.

He's sweaty and winded afterward, shirt sticking to his back and jeans covered in grass stains as he takes a breather.

"Don't tell me you're getting old," Josh remarks, dropping into the lawn chair beside him with a groan.

Jensen tips his beer bottle against his bottom lip, takes a quick sip. "Never," he says on a swallow, wipes the back of his thumb against his chin. "Could run circles around these kids. I was just takin' it easy on 'em."

Josh smirks around the rim of his own cold beer, both of them watching Brodie and his friends invent a game that appears to be a mix between soccer and basketball with maybe a little bit of croquet thrown in. His phone goes off in his pocket and he leans over slightly to fish it out, checks the screen for the caller ID.

He's greeted with a picture of Jared in a sombrero, his face scrunched in a suitably unflattering expression and Jensen laughs despite himself as he connects the call.

"Nice picture."

There's a pause for a second and then he hears Jared's quiet laugh. "You like it? Megan took that one a couple years ago when she dragged me down to Mexico City for a weekend."

"It's very flattering."

"The hat, man. Brings out my eyes."

"I don't know, it's a little overwhelming," Jensen says, playing along. He gives Josh a quick, apologetic look as he gets to his feet, wanders a few yards away to where the kids' shrieks of laughter aren't quite so loud. "Should try something a little more subdued next time. Stovepipe, maybe."

"Ooh, or a tiara!" Jared says, like he's actually considering it. "So where are you, anyway? Chuck E. Cheese?"

"My brother's place. It's my nephew's birthday."

"Dude, really? Man, how old is Logan now? He's gotta be what, like twelve at least."

"Fourteen. It's Brodie's day, though. Just turned nine."

"Brodie," Jared echoes and Jensen realizes it's probably the first time Jared's heard of him; Brodie had been born a year or two after Jensen left for San Francisco. "That's about Ethan's age. Jeff and Maggie's boy. They got a little girl, too. She _loves_ me."

"Yeah, I bet," Jensen snorts, ignoring the dull ache low in his stomach. It feels too familiar and too strange both at once, like he's reacquainting himself with his own shadow after standing under high noon for seven years. "So anyway, why the call? Everything okay?"

"Right, yeah," Jared says, words melting off into an odd sort of laugh. "I was actually just checkin' to see if you wanna meet up some time before rookie camp to go over some things."

Jensen arches an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his beer. "Some things?"

"Like, plans or whatever. I mean, Krip and Morgan have been keeping me in the loop for the most part, but I figured it'd be good to touch base with you, too. See what's up."

"Well, OTAs start in a few weeks," Jensen replies, thumbnail working under the label of his beer. "We'll have plenty of time to go over stuff there. We should have a rookie free agent or two by then too, so we'll have a better idea of what we have to work with."

"Yeah, I know, I just. I thought it might be better if it's just you and me. Informal, you know? Maybe go out for a few drinks or something while we're at it. Got a lot to catch up on."

Jensen squints out across the lawn as he considers. Ten years ago and Jared's invitation would've had a lot more meaning behind it. Going out for drinks meant staying in and getting naked, maybe spending a few hours with Jared's dick in his mouth, television blaring from the other room to cover the sounds they made together.

Eight years ago and 'catching up over a few drinks' was only a proprietary precursor to a night spent straddling Jared's waist and kissing until night faded into morning.

Now it just means exactly what it sounds like. Nothing more.

He clears his throat quietly and kicks at a lump of grass by his foot. Says, "Yeah, sure. When were you thinking?"

"Tonight? The Stars game is on, first of the semi-finals."

Much to Logan's dismay, Jensen's never paid much attention to hockey. But he nods all the same, ignores the irritating voice at the back of his head insisting this is a bad idea. "Who they playing again?"

"Nashville."

"Hmm. Well, I'm gonna be here for a couple more hours yet."

"Yeah, yeah, no, that's cool. Just come by whenever. Or we can meet up somewhere if you want."

Meeting up is safer, Jensen knows. Much less opportunity for temptation and a hundred opportunities for distraction if things get awkward. So when he hears himself say, "N'ah, your place is fine," he nearly physically winces.

"Okay, cool. Awesome. I'll send you the address here shortly."

Jensen doesn't miss the relief in Jared's voice, doesn't find it difficult at all to picture that wide, dimpled smile. The Jared in his head is a weird mish-mash of the guy he's seen on TV for the past several years, poised and impersonal, and the guy he spent a season playing and practicing with nearly a decade ago. Boyish eagerness conflicting with seasoned confidence, like Jared's almost two separate people entirely as opposed to just... different. Older.

He forces the newest version to the forefront, thinks of Jared's accomplishments on the field and the smile he flashes the camera after a win and says, "Sounds good. I'll catch you later, then."

"Yeah," Jared says, quieter, and that image in Jensen's head wavers and slips away. "See ya later, Jensen."

:::

Jared's house is a hell of a lot bigger than the condo Jensen remembers. It has two floors consisting of four bedrooms and four full bathrooms, an expansive kitchen, two living areas and a finished basement that houses a mini movie theater and wet bar. There's wood flooring throughout and wide, arched doorways, each room artfully decorated and furnished with just enough of Jared's personality to show he at least put some work into it himself.

Size aside, it's not wholly unlike Jensen's own house, the artwork on the walls displayed alongside photographs of Jared with his family and friends and various celebrities, some faces more familiar than others. There are a few trophies lined up above the mantel in the dining room, a few others placed atop shelves and bookcases in the bedrooms and living areas.

Almost every single room has two large cushions strategically placed side-by-side on the floor, each of them covered in a thin layer of dog hair. Various toys are scattered throughout, though Jared does his best to pick them up as they go, which only makes the largest of the two dogs -- Harley, Jared reminds him -- increasingly excited.

"He thinks it's playtime," Jared explains, dropping a hand to the top of the dog's head before shifting his tone as he addresses the beast. "But he would be wrong. Sorry, man, we've got guests."

Jared ends up ordering a pizza and they grab a couple beers and settle into the overly plush couches in the living room, television already tuned to the game.

"So," Jared says halfway through the third period. "Tell me about this Porter kid."

Jensen shrugs, eyes still on the television, attempting to pretend he gives a shit who wins. "He's good. Not, like, _superstar_ good, but he's got a lot of promise."

"Morgan told me you were really pulling for him."

Glancing over, Jensen arches an eyebrow. "He did, huh?"

"Told me that's pretty much the whole reason we signed him."

That's news to Jensen and he spares a second or two wondering why Jeff would share that with Jared and fail to mention it to Jensen. Though, he supposes it doesn't really matter.

"He's good," Jensen says again before tipping his head back to finish off his second beer. "Not, like... he won't be taking your job this year or anything if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried," Jared insists, smile easy and calm. Like he really means it. "This is my year, man. I know I'm golden."

"Well, it's good to see your ego hasn't suffered any in the past few years."

"Mm-mm," Jared says around a swig of his beer, one finger pointed at Jensen. "Not ego. Confidence."

"Six of one..."

"Whatever, dude," Jared laughs as he shifts a little. "I just have a feeling about this year, you know? A good feeling. Like we could really do something great."

"It's because of me, isn't it?" Jensen says, clearly teasing as he cocks his head to one side. "I'm bringing it back."

The smile Jared gives him then, softer and just a little heated, isn't at all what Jensen's expecting. It slides right through him, settles low in his spine and stays there, flaring when Jared says, "Yeah, maybe."

Swallowing, Jensen turns his attention back to the hockey game. "I think the Stars might actually win this one," he says.

"Dude, do you even like hockey?" Jared says, laughing as he pushes himself up to his feet. "I'm getting another beer, you want one?"

"Yeah, sure. And I have no opinion on hockey. Other than I think it's weird that _Texas_ of all places has a team."

"Georgia, too," Jared says as he wanders back into the kitchen. "And Florida has a couple, I think. Dude, _Phoenix_ has one."

"I just think there should be a rule. If your city can't sustain an actual outdoor rink without the aid of some kind of ice machine, you shouldn't be granted a team. Period."

"Right. They should just move 'em all back up to Canada."

"Exactly. And then maybe they'll give us back the Bills."

Jared lets out a quick laugh, returning with the beers and dropping back into the couch. "N'ah," he says, tipping his bottle against his lips. "Let 'em keep the Bills. Not like we'd be missing out on a whole lot."

They finish watching the game, both cheering half-heartedly when the Stars end up winning 5-3. Jensen stays for awhile after and he makes sure to keep the topic of conversation largely on the team and some of the ideas Kripke's shared with Jensen regarding the upcoming season. He very carefully steers clear of anything remotely personal and Jared follows suit.

By the time he leaves, there's a warm thrum under his skin Jensen chooses to attribute to the mild buzz of booze and nothing more.

:::

They sign a rookie free agent quarterback the next week, a guy named Grady Hamilton from Weber State, which brings the team's QB total up to four. Jared and Russell are free of rookie camp duties, but Damon and Grady are required to attend. For the most part, Jensen feels like he's learning right along with the players, adjusting to the new practice schedule and routine as he slides into his role.

It's a far cry from OSU. More intense for one thing. Longer days and tougher schedules. There's an introductory meeting the first night in which Kripke addresses all his new prospective players, explains what's expected from each of them and details the plan for the next few days, from wake-up calls and curfews to weight training, position meetings and practices. Nearly every minute is planned, a full-color preview of what they have to look forward to for the rest of the year if they're lucky enough to make it that far.

Jensen doesn't meet alone with his quarterbacks until halfway through Tuesday morning, after they've both done their baseline strength tests and chosen their numbers. The room fills with a nervous energy the minute they step in and Jensen has Damon close the door before motioning them both to take a seat.

"So here we are," Jensen says once Grady and Damon have settled in. It's a smaller room, but still large for just three people and Jensen sits atop the table in front, electronic clipboard at his side. "How's it goin' so far, guys?"

"Pretty good," Damon says with a loose and easy smile. "Easier than I thought it'd be."

Jensen laughs and gives a small nod. "Yeah, just wait. You haven't actually done anything yet."

Damon grins, but doesn't say much more and Jensen launches into an off-the-cuff spiel about how the NFL isn't like college, how it's faster, harder and ten times tougher. He's basically rewording everything Kripke had said just the night before, but altering it enough to fit his players specifically.

"I'm basically a rookie here, too," he tells them. "This is my first year as a coach in this league so I'm gonna be learning right along with you. Which means I'm probably gonna make some mistakes and you're probably gonna get frustrated with me sometimes, but if we stick with it, I'm sure we can help each other out."

"You played here, didn't you?" Grady asks, eying Jensen carefully.

"Yeah, awhile back," he replies. "You were probably in middle school back then."

"I remember you," Damon says. Jensen's beginning to wonder if the kid's face is incapable of any expression beyond a bright, blinding smile. "You were pretty good, man. Got a lot of flack, but you worked your ass off."

Jensen arches an eyebrow, feels a smirk tug at his lips. "I did my job," he says. "Just like you're gonna do yours."

"So are you really..." Grady asks, abrupt before his voice trails off and then gives a stilted sort of nod. "You know."

He looks uncomfortable, lips twisted in a faint grimace and Jensen feels himself tense slightly. It's not a surprising question, though, and he keeps his expression utterly neutral as he tilts his head. "Am I really what?" he asks, calmly. Because, hell, the kid can ask if he wants, but Jensen's not about to let him just dance around it.

Grady shifts a little and gives another nod. "You know," he says again. "You like guys?"

"Dude," Damon says before Jensen can respond. "What the hell kinda question is that?"

Grady frowns, lips parting to give some kind of retort, but Jensen jumps in before he can get it out. Says, "Yeah, I do. Not that it has anything to do with your role on this team. Or mine."

Jensen's almost a little relieved to see that Damon's not smiling anymore, the kid's lips twisted into a scowl as he glares at Grady.

"Does that make you uncomfortable, Hamilton? It's fine if it does. I get it."

He doesn't answer for a long moment, gaze trained on the binder at his fingertips before he shrugs.

Jensen lets out a breath and crosses his arms over his chest as he nods. It isn't a new issue by any means and it's certainly not unexpected. But that doesn't make it easy.

"Okay," he says, quiet, but firm. "I'm gonna make you a promise. Hey, c'mon. Show me you're listening. I promise you won't catch the gay by looking at me."

Grady doesn't even smirk as he glances up to meet Jensen's gaze, eyes sharp.

"Good," he says, dropping his arms and holding Grady there with only a look. "Now listen to me. Unless it's illegal or in some way pertains to your performance on the field, I will never ask about your life outside of here. If you want to spend your evenings crocheting and catching up on your favorite daytime soaps, I ain't gonna judge you." Damon lets out a snort of a laugh. "That clear? I don't care what you do off the field. Whatever it is you need to keep you happy, loose and relaxed when you suit up, I'm all for it.

"You leave your personal life at home and I'll leave mine. Here, I'm your coach and you're my player. I expect you to listen to me, respect me and let me help you to reach your potential. Whatever you think of me beyond that, I really don't care. Despise me off the field all you want, but respect me on it. That clear?"

"Yes, sir," Grady says after a beat, voice firm.

"How 'bout you, Porter?" Jensen says, turning his attention to his other rookie, eyebrows raised.

"Dude, I don't give a shit if you fuck ponies," he says, that smile of his right back in place. "I'm just here to play some football."

Jensen laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he pushes to his feet. "Last I checked, pony-fucking is illegal so let's avoid that, huh?" he says before flipping on the digital overhead and lighting up the opposite wall with a picture of strategically placed X's and O's. "Tell me what you can read in this defensive scheme."

:::

There's about a week between the conclusion of rookie camp and the first set of OTAs and most of that time is spent in meetings with the rest of the coaching staff both to analyze the production and potential of the rookies as well as lay out a plan for the rest of the season. Jensen already has high hopes for both Porter and Hamilton and he tells Jeff as much during an offensive meeting.

"How do you think they'll hold up against Russell?"

Russell Whitlow is the team's current back-up quarterback, a seventh year player acquired from Carolina three years ago. He's a solid, experienced player.

"Can't really say yet," he says with a shrug. "I'll let you know in about a week or so."

"What about Jared?" Kripke cuts in, one hand playing idly with the bill of his ballcap as he leans back in his chair. "You think they got anything he doesn't?"

Jensen quirks a small grin. "Youth?" he says, acknowledging Kripke's answering smile before turning more serious. "He's quick. Eager. Just going by what we saw out there, I'd say Porter has a good shot of making the 53 by the end of camp."

"And Hamilton?"

"Could surprise us."

"Hmm," Kripke says, appearing to consider that before turning his attention to David. "How are we doing on tight ends?"

"Think you should ask Jensen that one," Andrew mutters across the table. It's just loud enough for Jensen to hear, the implication is crystal clear. Jensen glances over before he can bother to hide his stunned expression.

But Andrew's pointedly not looking back, his focus entirely on David and Kripke, both of whom appear ignorant of the interruption, already in deep discussion.

Beside him, Jeff shifts in his chair, elbow knocking gently against Jensen's, just enough to make him aware that Andrew's remark hadn't gone completely unnoticed. And just enough to suggest Jensen should keep his mouth shut for now.

And he does. Not happily, but he does.

:::

Two days before the start of minicamp, Jensen's in his office, scribbling notes into the preliminary playbook Kripke and Morgan have come up with, picking apart the strengths and weaknesses as he sees them and offering up alternate versions where necessary. His desk is a mess of loose papers and blue and red pens, digital pad cued up to show the plays in real time for easier analysis. Jensen works best in silence, so it's quiet, no sound but the shuffling papers and the steady fan in the corner keeping air flowing.

And his phone buzzing.

Distracted by the potential weak spots in a screen pass option from the shotgun, Jensen doesn't even check the ID before answering. Just clicks to connect and tucks it against his ear with a muttered, "Hello?"

"Jensen?"

The voice is unfamiliar, but that isn't too unusual and Jensen scratches an X over the tight end position and mutters, "Yep. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, this is-- Jensen. Hi. This is Matt." Jensen gives a grunt, attention momentary pulled away from his work as he tries to mentally go through all the Matts he's known over the past few years. But then the guy adds, "Matt Carrington," and Jensen's mouth falls open.

"From Berkner High," he continues, apparently taking Jensen's silence as a lack of recognition. His laugh is a quiet rumble that sends Jensen's mind reeling back a good decade and a half. "C'mon, man. I know it's been awhile, but I can't be that forgettable."

"No, it's-- holy shit. _Matt_."

Matt's laugh then is a little warmer and Jensen can _feel_ the guy's smile. Wonders if it's as sweet as he remembers.

"God. Matt. Hi," Jensen breathes, dropping his pen and resting back in his chair. "How did you-- fuck, I haven't heard from you in years. How'd you get my number?"

"Oh, just through the typical channels. Broke into a few databases and held your agent at gunpoint. Wasn't too difficult."

Jensen huffs another laugh and rubs his free hand over his face. Says, "Long as you didn't hurt him. I don't need him to be cutting into my percentage to cover medical bills."

"Don't worry, I only cut off one testicle; he'll be fine," Matt says and Jensen breathes another laugh. "So I heard you're back in Dallas."

"I am. Hopefully for at least a few more months unless I totally fuck it up."

"You think that's likely?"

"It's possible."

"Not what I asked."

"God, you're just as annoying as I remember," Jensen says, lips tugged into a grin as Matt laughs in his ear.

"Aha. I knew you missed me," he says, all the self-assured, quiet confidence Jensen remembers from so long ago.

It's strange, really. Jensen has barely even thought about Matt in the past few years, too caught up in the whirlwind of controversy and the state of his coaching career to reach out even after Matt had done so for him. His letter had just gotten buried under the thousands of others, lost in the mix of people he knew and people he'd never met.

But it's been at least fifteen years and, even though he knows his friend is joking, Jensen thinks Matt just might be right.

"I'm actually in town for a few days," Matt continues. "Was hoping we could meet up. Maybe grab some coffee or lunch or something. If you have time."

Jensen's schedule is locked into the calendar feature on his phone, the dates and times for minicamp neatly surrounded by meetings and media obligations and game film sessions. But he doesn't bother to check it, his answer coming easy: "Yeah, man. Absolutely."

"Yeah?" Matt says, like he can't quite expected that answer. "Great, that's... how's Sunday look for you? They gotta at least give you one day off a week, right?"

Jensen grins. Says, "Depends on the time of the year."

"Right, right," Matt says. "Well, if Sunday doesn't work, I'm sure we can figure something else out."

"No no, it's cool. Sunday's... actually pretty perfect right now."

"Yeah? Okay, great. So how 'bout I call you on Saturday and we can work out the details then?"

"Sounds good, man."

"Great. I'll do that then."

Jensen can still hear Matt's smile in every word as he says his goodbye, feels his own face mirroring it even when it turns a little awkward, neither of them knowing where exactly the conversation should end or who should hang up first.

And when Jensen finally disconnects the call moments later, he's still practically beaming.

:::

"Brown caught twenty of twenty-two attempts in the seven-on-seven," Whitfield reports in the minicamp follow-up meeting on Saturday. "Hodge had fourteen of seventeen, Thomas sixteen of eighteen, Chambers fifteen of eighteen, Fisher thirteen of seventeen, Newhall ten of fifteen."

"So what're we looking at?" Kripke replies.

Charles dives in, outlining the strengths and weaknesses in each receiver while some of the other coaches toss in their own opinions and observations, everyone working together to determine who was better, faster, smarter, tougher. This early in the process, the decisions are easier. Most of the veterans are all but guaranteed, while the rookies are firmly under the microscope, every twitch analyzed within an inch of its life.

It's a tiring process for sure and they've barely even gotten started. Training camp is still a month away.

His phone goes off while Kripke and Beaver are discussing the special teams output and Jensen glances down to see a text from Matt: _Cafe Brazil on Cedar Springs @ noon?_

Fighting a grin, Jensen taps out his reply without even checking his schedule. There's a weird itch under his skin, a growing sense of anxiousness that isn't entirely unpleasant. His attention is quickly diverted back to the meeting when Beaver says, "I'm still out a placeholder. Jensen, any of your guys up for the job?"

"Yeah, uhm," Jensen says, roughly clearing his throat as he sets his phone aside. "Hamilton's had some college experience, but we might want to try working in Porter."

Beaver gives a quiet grunt of consideration, head bowed as he scribbles into his pad of paper. "Mind if I talk to both of 'em?"

"Go for it."

"There's always Jared," Jeff says and Jensen blinks. For about three minutes, Jensen hadn't been thinking about Jared, had all but forgotten he was even on the team. "He hasn't done it in a few years, but it probably wouldn't take him long to get the swing of it again."

"Can't guarantee my kickers won't break his fingers," Jim points out.

Jeff tosses him a smirk. "Then we need new kickers."

"Let's see how Hamilton and Porter do first and go from there," Jensen says, ignoring the odd feeling low in his gut.

If anyone notices that he's the only one at the table not smiling, they don't mention it.

:::

Back in high school, Matt had been shorter than Jensen by a few inches. Narrower, too. Not exactly scrawny, but definitely thinner than most of the guys Jensen hung out with, his muscles lean and hidden away, covered by the hours he spent in the school library.

Jensen had hardly noticed it at the time and hadn't cared. In high school, Matt was beautiful and perfect in a way that had terrified and excited him in equal amounts. Tempting to the extreme. They'd spent months fooling around, long afternoons spent kissing and touching and grinding together and an extremely memorable few weeks when they'd done a whole lot more. Right up until the day Jensen packed up and moved north for a shot at his dreams.

It's been almost fifteen years since the last time Jensen saw him and Matt isn't the thin, pale bookworm he remembers. Not even close.

"Matt," he breathes as he rises to his feet. "Wow."

Matt's eyes are a familiar chocolate brown and he has the same bright, boyish smile, but just about everything else has changed. He's filled out, t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and he's easily as tall as Jensen now, could likely fight right in any NFL locker room. His blond hair is shorter, cut into a wholesome, nondescript style that suits the cut of his jaw line and he's clean shaven with only the barest hint of stubble visible.

He looks incredible.

"God, it's good seein' you again," Matt says, his hand warm and firm as it wraps around Jensen's. "Been way too long."

Jensen nods in agreement and keeps his hand right where it is as he lets his eyes rake over Matt's form yet again. "Jesus, you grew up, didn't you?"

Matt lets out a quick laugh and ducks his head with a shrug. "Lookin' pretty good yourself," he says when he glances up again, a small smirk curving his lips as he finally releases Jensen's hand.

"Who said anything about looking good?" Jensen replies. "I just said you grew up. Where's your walking cane, man? You sure you can get around alright?"

"Ah, so you're still a smartass," Matt says as he pulls out the chair opposite Jensen's. "Nice to know some things never change."

Jensen sits across from him, fingers wrapping loosely around his mug of coffee. Says, "C'mon, that's not the only thing that's the same about me. Still have my boyish good looks."

"You do," Matt agrees, far more easily than Jensen had anticipated. And then adds with a grin, "And those incredible bow legs."

"Oh, fuck you," Jensen says on a quick laugh.

Sunday is clearly a busy day for the cafe, the place teeming with both college kids and families. Laughter and chatter echoes through the place, mixing in with the latest top forty songs filtering through the speakers. Jensen sips at his coffee as Matt flashes him another bright grin and opens up the menu.

"The omelets here are incredible," Jensen says as he licks the taste of coffee from his lips.

Matt glances up, gaze catching briefly around the vicinity of Jensen's mouth and Jensen doesn't bother fighting the pulse of heat he feels when those eyes finally drag back up to his own.

"Yeah? The Western looks pretty good."

"It is," Jensen assures him, then takes another sip, Matt watching him the entire time.

Their waitress stops by moments later to take their order, smiling and almost overly cheerful in that way Jensen would find incredibly annoying on nearly any other day. She flirts shamelessly, but there's no real intent behind it and, once she's gone, Matt's attention is locked on Jensen once more, one elbow rested on the table and chin in hand.

"So," he says, motioning vaguely. "Fill me in on things."

Jensen laughs quietly and shifts in his chair, attempting to relax under Matt's warm scrutiny as he scratches at his neck. "There's, like, fifteen years of things. Where should I start?"

"Well, at the risk of sounding like a total stalker, there's actually a lot I know already if that helps."

"That right?" Jensen says, one eyebrow arched as he rests back in his chair.

"Well, let's see. You graduated from Berkner in 2001 and were then recruited by Washington State where you led the school to two bowl games. Drafted by the Washington Redskins in... 2004? I think? Played there for a few years before getting traded to the Cowboys. Spent some time here and then headed out to San Francisco, where an ankle injury ended your career."

"Knee injury," Jensen says with a faint grin. "The ankle sprain was in Dallas."

"Ah, got it," Matt says, reaching for a creamer. "So you went back to school after retirement and finished out your degree before they offered you an entry-level coaching position. A year later, you were promoted to quarterbacks coach where you directed some kid to a Heisman nomination, which I've been told is a pretty big accomplishment for that particular school."

Jensen lets out a quiet chuckle, cheeks heating as he gives a shrug. "OSU's a football powerhouse," he explains, fingers still wrapped loosely around his coffee mug. "But they're not exactly known for producing great quarterbacks."

"I guess that explains why they were so reluctant to let you go even after you came out then."

"Or maybe they were just afraid of the HRC jumping down their throats," Jensen says.

"Maybe," Matt agrees after his own slightly stilted laugh. Something in his expression flickers then, but it's gone in another blink, gaze back on Jensen as he pushes on. "But that doesn't explain why you were then promoted _again_ a year later to offensive coordinator."

" _Assistant_ offensive coordinator," Jensen corrects him. "Man, you really have done your homework, haven't you?"

"I'm obsessed with you, Jensen," Matt says, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. "I'm planning to steal a sample of your DNA before we leave here."

"And what, clone me?"

"You got it," Matt says, grinning slow as he eyes Jensen with a little more intent. "Gonna make myself a fortune on Grade-A Jensen Ackles replicas. Don't worry, you can have a cut of the profits. That's why I'm here, actually. Proposing a business plan."

Jensen huffs a laugh before taking another sip of his coffee. "Why _are_ you here?" he asks as he sets the mug down again. "I'm guessing you don't live here anymore."

"Excellent deductive reasoning, Dr. Watson," Matt teases and there's no doubt in Jensen's mind anymore that they're flirting. It's a good feeling. Refreshing. If he plays his cards right, Jensen's pretty sure he might get laid by the end of the afternoon. "I live in D.C., actually, but I fly out here pretty frequently on business. Usually to Austin, but I like to stop by Dallas once in awhile, too. Check in on the folks."

"What's the business?"

Matt seems to a falter a little at that, gaze darting away as he lets out a quick laugh and then says, "I work for a non-profit organization that focuses on promoting the rights of the LGBT community. Which basically means I spend my days groveling and metaphorically sucking the dicks of dirty politicians."

Jensen feels a familiar twinge of discomfort, but manages to keep his expression neutral as he says, "Sounds glamorous."

"You have no idea."

"And that brings you out to Texas?"

"Well, believe it or not, a lot of those dirty politicians are Texan."

Their waitress comes by with their food moments later and they both dig in, Matt going into a little further detail on his job and the steps he'd taken to get there. Graduate of NYU with a double-major in poli-sci and journalism. Had a stint working for the Sun Times in Chicago for awhile before deciding the journalism angle wasn't really for him. Moved back east and started working his current job five years ago.

And it makes sense to Jensen, all of it. The guy he'd been so enamored with in high school, that geeky kid who'd preferred _Newsweek_ over _Sports Illustrated_ and political debates over Friday night games... it only makes sense he'd turned into this guy.

"I got your letter," Jensen mentions as he's finishing up his food, washes away the taste of egg and cheese with another sip of his coffee. "Sorry I never wrote back. Things were just... kinda crazy there for awhile."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Matt says, waving his fork dismissively. "That's not why I wrote it anyway."

"Yeah, it was... I don't know. It was a nice thing to hear at the time."

"Well, it was a good thing you did. Very brave."

Jensen scoffs and shakes his head. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, but he still can't say he agrees. It'd been a selfish decision, something he'd done purely for himself and no one else. Much to the dismay of various gay rights groups.

"I'm serious," Matt says and Jensen glances up to see that his gaze has softened a little, smile faded. "I'm not surprised you don't agree; you can't see it. But it really was, Jensen. It still is. Things are better now than they used to be, but it's still no cakewalk for any of us and I'm sure it's even worse in your line of work."

Jensen thinks of Doug and Andrew and the dozen or so other people back at Valley Ranch who barely manage to tolerate him on a daily basis and shrugs. "Not as bad as you might think. I still have a career. Can't complain about that."

"It's pretty impressive, honestly."

"I guess."

Grinning, Matt shakes his head, but Jensen ignores it.

"So you leave tomorrow, right?" he says instead, eager to change the topic.

"Mmm," Matt replies around another sip of his coffee. "Bright and early."

"Do you have plans for the rest of the day or are you free to hang for awhile?"

Matt shakes his head, his gaze once again dropping down to Jensen's mouth as his grin widens. "No," he replies, voice a little lower. "No, I'm definitely free."

:::

"Yeah," Jensen groans, head craned back as Matt breathes hot against his neck, his hips arching for more friction. "God, _yeah_. C'mon."

Matt laughs, a low, throaty sound before shifting lower, teeth catching on Jensen's collarbone. "Don't remember you bein' this bossy before. Or loud."

"Only 'cause I couldn't be," Jensen answers, grinning as he slides his hand into the back of Matt's jeans, fingers slipping over sweaty, smooth skin. They're both still clothed, grinding against each other like they're in high school all over again, hard in their jeans and mouths sore.

Matt's hips roll forward again, slow and deliberate, and he pushes up onto his elbows, cheeks flushed as he smiles down at Jensen. Jensen smiles right back.

"Want me to suck you?"

Jensen's answer is only a choked groan at first, hips thrusting upward as he slides his hand from Matt's pants up the length of his back. "Dumb question," he laughs, his other hand grabbing the back of Matt's neck and hauling him in for a kiss, all teeth and tongue as Matt gracelessly crawls to straddle Jensen's hips and works at unbuttoning his jeans.

A minute later and Matt's mouth is wrapped around his cock. Jensen has his fingers buried in the short strands of Matt's hair, his other hand clinging to the meat of Matt's shoulder as his body arches into the pleasure, muscles straining.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Matt gasps, pulling off with a wet smack after a minute or two.

Jensen groans and blinks down at him, sees his dick glistening with spit and pre-come and straining hopefully toward Matt's swollen lips. He gives an inquiring whine and jerks his hips helplessly. "What?"

"Nothing," Matt says, his hand stroking down to Jensen's balls, fondling gently before he ducks down to take one in his mouth and Jensen shudders all over again. Matt lets it slip free a second later and drags his tongue up the underside of Jensen's dick, breath hot against the tip as he murmurs, "Just... so fuckin' hot. Can't believe it."

Jensen's cheeks burn and he lets out a rough laugh, his hand moving from the back of Matt's head to his own cock, thumb hooking around the shaft to guide it to Matt's mouth.

"Shut up and suck me," he says. It's meant to be teasing, but he doesn't miss the way Matt's eyes darken before those lips again engulf him, sucking him down like it's the best thing Matt's ever had in his mouth. "Oh fuck," Jensen groans, back arching up off the bed and toes curling when he feels his dick slide into the tight channel of Matt's throat, Matt's nose buried in his pubic hair. "Oh, _fuck_."

He loses all sense of time then, all higher brain function shot to hell as Matt sucks him down again and again and again, brings Jensen right to the edge until he's mindless with it, crying out and begging to come, one hand grappling at the sheets and the other digging blunt half moons into Matt's shoulder.

His orgasm, when it finally hits, is easily the best one he's had in years. It rocks through him like a tidal wave, his entire body seizing and throat locking tight, dick pulsing in the tight, perfect grip of Matt's hand as he comes in thick strands across his stomach where his shirt's hiked up, feels every splash against overheated skin.

"Yeah," Matt groans, jerking him through it. Jensen has his eyes closed, but he can feel Matt watching him as his body jolts with the aftershocks, dick still spitting out strings of milky come.

He whimpers when Matt's grip on him loosens, partly in disappointment and partly in relief, and blinks his eyes open in time to see Matt leaning in close for a kiss. He grins as their lips meet, chases the bitter hint of himself on Matt's tongue.

Matt breaks it a second later, their noses smashed together as he breathes against Jensen's open mouth, shoulders trembling faintly.

It takes a second or two for Jensen to realize Matt's jeans are open and he's jerking himself off. Jensen groans, quiet and low, and slides a hand down to Matt's forearm.

"C'mon," he murmurs, arching lazily. Encouraging. "C'mon, yeah."

"Jensen-- fuck, _Jensen_ \-- oh God. Oh _God_ \--"

Matt's entire body is strung tight, muscles clenched from thigh to chest as his hand works faster, grunting deliciously with each slick stroke. A few more pumps and then he's shooting, coating Jensen's stomach in thick spurts, glistening trails dripping down the curve of muscle, streaking his skin.

"Mmm, not bad," Jensen says, smirking as he touches the mess on his belly and leans up to brush his lips along Matt's jaw.

Matt groans in response and then huffs a breath, lips curving against Jensen's as he mutters, "Fuck you."

"Maybe later," Jensen says, his hand sliding up under Matt's shirt, fingers sticky with come as he circles a nipple, grinning when Matt hisses in response. "Gotta regroup first. Not as young as I used to be."

They spend the rest of the afternoon in Jensen's bed, alternating between watching television and playing variations of the, "Hey, remember when..." game before they both realize it's past eight o'clock and they're starving. Jensen calls for some Thai and they eat in the front room, still laughing and trading stories.

Jensen's surprised by how easy it is, how effortless. It's almost like they're right back in high school, that bond still as strong, but without the added weight of a closely held secret and the constant fear of discovery.

It's nearing 11:00 when Matt checks his watch and sighs.

"Man, I hate to end this, but my plane leaves at 6:00 tomorrow. I should really get going."

They have the television on, but the sound turned way down; they've barely stopped talking all night. "Yeah, I have to check in pretty early, too," Jensen agrees, though he can't help the mild disappointment.

"Yeah," Matt says, but doesn't move. Just keeps staring at Jensen with a weird sort of smile on his face. He finally breaks it with a quick laugh, cheeks pink as he looks away and pushes up to his feet. "Yeah, I'll just--"

"I'll walk you out," Jensen volunteers, fighting his own awkward smile as he heads to the front door.

They linger there for another few minutes, Jensen standing with his hand wrapped around the doorknob while fighting the impulse to curl his fingers in the front of Matt's shirt and pull him in for one more kiss.

"So, you should call me the next time you're in town," Jensen says as he leans against the doorjamb. "Whenever that is."

"I actually have a few meetings planned in Austin in a couple weeks. Could swing by here when I'm done."

Jensen nods, mentally checking his schedule. "We leave for San Antonio at the end of July."

"Yeah? Good, that's... maybe I'll meet you down there," Matt says, seemingly not bothering to hide a bright smile and he trails off on a laugh.

Finally letting his own grin break free, Jensen nods and Matt takes the few steps down to the sidewalk, head still turned to Jensen.

"I'll call you," he says.

"Get with this century and upload a recognition I.D. while you're at it," Jensen replies, grin all but splitting his face as Matt rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'll think about it."

Matt's in his car and halfway down the driveway before Jensen closes the door.

:::

"Here," Jensen says, pausing the image on-screen with a tap of his stylus pen. Another tap and he's drawing a yellow line between the ball in Porter's hand and the waiting receiver along the far post. "Notice your head," Jensen continues. "Where are you looking?"

"To the right," Porter answers and Jensen nods, makes an X on the helmet of the opposite receiver.

"Okay, he's not open," Jensen says, tapping the defender only a foot away and making the film start up again. "Where do you look next?"

"Up the middle," Porter says, digging the pen cap into his cheek. "Checking for Abel."

"Why didn't you look wide? Brown was open."

"I, uh. Forgot we were running a post."

Jensen's lips twitch into a grin as the other three guys try to muffle their laughter and he glances back at his quarterback. "You're the one who called the play, Damon."

"I know, man, I just..."

"Forgot."

The kid at least has the good sense to look embarrassed and Jensen takes pity on him, letting the play run to completion without any further teasing.

At this stage, the film sessions are mostly for the younger guys, trying to pick out the weak spots early so they know what to work on up to and through training camp. Jared and Whitlow are mostly there out of obligation, though Jensen's pleased to see them both taking notes right along with the other two.

He finishes the meeting with a montage of highlights, three strong plays from each player so they can all be reminded of what they're doing right and says, "Good work today. I'll be meeting with each of you one-on-one throughout the week. See if we can work out some of these kinks before camp."

Hamilton murmurs a response as he gathers up his things and Whitlow gives a quiet nod as he does the same. Porter, though, smiles wide and bright. "Lookin' forward to it, Coach," he says and Jensen barely refrains from giving a fond eyeroll.

"Alright, get out. Enjoy the rest of your day. Keep it legal," he adds as he flips off the digital screen and starts gathering his things.

"Hey. You busy this afternoon?"

Jensen glances up to see Jared lingering by the door, bag slung over his shoulder. "I've got a meeting at 4:00. And you have weights, don't you?"

"At 3:00, yeah. You free after that?"

"Depends," Jensen replies, dropping his binder of notes into his bag and tossing in a handful of pens after it. "This business or pleasure?"

It comes out wrong, bogged down in double-entendre, and Jensen ducks his head quickly, pretends to be focused on zipping up his bag.

"Uhm, pleasure I guess? Unless you think of hanging out with me and a six-pack as business."

"Sometimes," Jensen says, relaxing somewhat as he grabs his bag. "Get the door would you?"

Jared does, his smile infuriatingly hopeful as Jensen steps through. "So that's a yes, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Jensen makes sure the door closes behind them and then gives a shrug as they head down the hall. Nothing had happened the last time he'd been alone with Jared and he's still not sure if that's a relief or not. This thing between them... he really has no idea what it is anymore. Or if it's anything at all beyond player and coach.

There's a line here, Jensen knows. One he absolutely cannot cross no matter how much he may want to.

"Will there be pizza?" he asks, arching an eyebrow and Jared's smile somehow splits even wider.

"Will be if you want it. You still like sausage and ham?"

Fighting his own grin, Jensen takes the corner toward his office and says, "Meet you at your place at 6:30?"

"Bet your ass."

There's still a voice in the back of Jensen's head screaming it's a bad idea, that this thing between him and Jared isn't really over and maybe never will be. Because whatever has changed in the past few years, it's still there. Jensen can feel it. In every look and smile they share, every teasing jab on and off the field. It's there. Like it never went away at all.

It should worry him. It _does_ worry him.

But not enough to make him consider calling it off.

:::

They're about four drinks and half a pizza each into the evening when Jared says, "So, what was it like?"

Jensen's comfortable. He has his legs stretched out, socked feet perched on Jared's coffee table and he's basically cocooned in the cushions of Jared's enormous couch. He has a stomach full of beer and greasy pizza and he'd be perfectly content to never move ever again. Hook him up with a live feed and a cell phone and he could totally call games from the comfort of Jared's living room.

He's utterly relaxed, he and Jared having spent the past five or ten minutes in easy silence, happy to watch Bruce Willis blow shit up for about the millionth time. So the question comes off more than a little random.

"Hmm?"

When he glances over, Jared appears more interested in the label on his beer bottle than the movie. "What was what like?"

"I was in my car when I first heard about it," Jared says instead of answering. "Drivin' home. It was big news here, Jen. Like... seriously big."

Jared speaks quietly and Jensen turns away, tries to force himself to focus on the television.

"It shocked the hell outta me. Not 'cause-- I mean, I _knew_. Obviously." There's a hint of humor in his voice then, but Jensen doesn't so much as smile. "I just... I guess I never figured you'd tell anyone."

Jensen swallows, glances down at the nearly empty bottle in his hand and shrugs. "Yeah, well. Guess that makes two of us."

"So why did you?"

It's not the first time Jensen's gotten that question and he's pretty sure it won't be the last. The only answer he ever has for it always sounds weak, but it's still the only one he has. "Just got tired of it."

"The hiding?" Jared asks, words nearly lost under the sounds of the television though neither of them make a move to turn down the volume.

Jensen grimaces, lips curling into something close to a frown. "That was part of it, yeah. But it was more..." he trails off a little and stares hard down at the bottle in his hand. This is the part he's never really told anyone but Danneel. She'd been the first to ask him, making sure to cover all the hard questions off the record as a friend before tackling the easier ones in front of a camera as a reporter.

On the one hand, he's not sure how much of this he wants to share with Jared. He doesn't doubt Jared would listen, doesn't doubt he cares even now, after all this time.

But he does doubt Jared's ability to relate.

On the other hand, it's Jared. And maybe that's all that really matters.

Jensen pulls in a breath and holds it for a moment, finally letting it out as he looks back over to Jared.

"I got tired of being lonely," he says, his voice calm despite the heavy thrum of his pulse. "Got tired of pretending to be two different people and neither of them ever really being _me_." Jared doesn't say anything in response and Jensen isn't entirely sure how to take that. He looks away, back down at the bottle in his hand. He wishes it wasn't nearly empty. "Just got tired of it all, you know? Of lying and leading on girl after girl, of constantly being scared that someone would catch me with my guard down and see me checking out some guy on the street."

Jared makes a sound then, something close to a laugh and Jensen glances over, feels his own lips twitch despite himself.

"Sorry," Jared says quickly. "I'm just. Having a hard time picturing that."

"What?"

"You. Checking anyone out, guy or girl," Jared answers, still grinning a little as he scratches at his chin. "Sounds like Chad, not you."

"Dude, I lived in San Francisco for three years. Do you have _any_ idea what kind of willpower it took to survive that?"

Jared does laugh then, a quick startled sound. "So that's what did it, huh?" Jared says, his teasing managing to ease some of the tension. "All those hot, available men running around and you just couldn't take it anymore."

"You make it sound so salacious."

"Ooh, big word," Jared says, lips pursing comically. "Impressive."

"I got tired of hating myself."

Jared's smile slips then, laughter dying short.

"Not for being gay," Jensen clarifies. "Or not-- I mean, I used to. I spent so many years of my life convinced there was something wrong with me, that I was twisted or just fucked in the head. Because everything around me in one way or another told me I was. But that wasn't really it. At some point, I learned to stop hating myself for liking dick and started hating myself for being a coward. I was living a lie every minute of every day, you know? Even if that lie was more socially acceptable than the truth, it still made me hate the guy in the mirror. And I got tired of it."

He finishes with a quiet breath and then lifts the bottle to his lips, hesitating only briefly before emptying the contents with one last, large sip.

Jared's still silent. Jensen can feel him watching.

"I was pissed at you for awhile," he finally says as Jensen swallows, the burn not nearly bitter enough for what the conversation really requires. "For... I don't know. For not telling me first, maybe. Like I should've been warned before you went through with it. I thought maybe people would figure it out, I guess. I knew _you_ wouldn't say anything, but people talk and when something like that comes out, people get ideas and..."

"It didn't have anything to do with you."

"I know that," Jared says, finally glancing up to meet Jensen's eyes. "I do. But I was in a fucked up kind of place for awhile. I mean, we'd just lost the Super Bowl -- again -- and Gen and I had just finalized the divorce and then..." Jared take a breath and lets it out. Tone shifting yet again as he continues. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

Frowning, Jensen looks up.

"I should've... I don't know. I should've talked to you."

"And said what?" Jensen asks, very nearly smiling. Jared's hunched forward a little, shame written in the curve of his shoulders and hard line of his brow. It's strange; Jensen's never really resented Jared for his choices, but he can't help feeling a tiny sense of vindication all the same.

Jared only shrugs and stares harder at the bottle in his hand.

"I got so many calls after that interview, Jay," Jensen says then. "Stopped answering after the first day."

"Yeah," Jared says, but he sounds sullen. Unconvinced.

Jensen has no idea what more he's supposed to say, whether or not Jared's expecting Jensen to absolve him. So he just sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head. Says, "So it was big news, huh? Shook the place up a little?"

Jared lets out a soft breath and glances up. "That was really your plan all along, wasn't it? Just wanted to be the center of attention for awhile."

"Worked for Westwick, didn't it?"

"Except for the part where his career went down the shitter."

"He's still playing," Jensen points out, slowly feeling himself start to relax a little. "Maybe not superstar caliber anymore, but that has as much to do with his age as it does him coming out."

"I'm older than he is."

"Yeah, but you're not a linebacker."

"The guy went to the Pro Bowl three years in a row and hasn't gotten one bid since the day he came out. You can't tell me that's coincidence."

"Dude," Jensen says on a laugh. "You're starting to sound like those _Advocate_ assholes."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Man, they've been trying to plaster my face to their cause for years now. Them and the fuckin' HRC. Serious pain in the ass."

"At least you have a cause worth something. I'm a twice-divorced, almost-was who may not be gay, but is, at the prime age of nearly thirty-four, still incredibly fucking confused. Try that one."

" _Twice_ divorced?"

"I was with Sandy for like, four years. It counts."

Jensen frowns, but doesn't argue, resolutely ignoring the second half of Jared's spiel. "Your cause sounds suspiciously like a midlife crisis," he says with a small grin.

Jared blinks and Jensen can literally see the fight go out of him, eyes crinkling and dimples denting his cheeks as he lets out a rough laugh.

"I suggest you buy a convertible and invest in Cialis."

"Fuck you," Jared says, still laughing as he leans forward to rip the empty bottle of beer from Jensen's hand and pushes to his feet. "I already have a convertible."

"So get another one. Get a _fleet_."

"I'm saving up for a yacht."

Jensen snorts and cranes his neck back to watch Jared disappear into the kitchen, presumably for more beer. "You got any chips?"

"Your fat ass doesn't need any chips."

"I'll settle for Pringles."

He doesn't get any response for that one and, grinning, he turns his attention back to the screen in time to catch John McClane meticulously pulling shards of glass from his feet.

Jared returns moments later, bumping the back of Jensen's head with the butt of a cold bottle.

"Here you go, fat ass," he says, dropping a bag of Doritos into Jensen's lap at the same time.

"Dude, you can shut the hell up," Jensen says after taking a sip of his beer and setting it aside to rip into the bag of chips. "I have seen you eat, remember. You put linemen to shame."

Jared only grins. "You're getting awfully bitter in your old age, Schmackles."

"Damn straight," Jensen says, biting into three bright orange chips at once and smiling wide.

They finish the movie without any further serious discussion before engaging in a playful argument over whether Alan Rickman's Hans Gruber is more kickass than his Sheriff of Nottingham which Jared settles with a truly earth-shattering belch that stinks of beer and artificial cheese.

Coughing dramatically, Jensen waves the smell away from his face. "You are easily the most disgusting person I've ever known," he says through a wheeze.

"Aww, you know you love me," Jared replies. His cheeks are rosy red from the beer and there's a streak of orange dust at the corner of his mouth. "You miiiiiissed me. Your life was totally empty without me."

Jensen huffs a laugh and dodges the sickly orange finger Jared tries to smear across his face as he gets to his feet and heads for the bathroom.

He leaves soon thereafter, explaining that he has a meeting with Hamilton scheduled for the following morning.

"Grady," Jared says with a frown. "You know he's not gonna make it through training camp, right?"

"So sure, huh?"

"Well, he's a dick," Jared says, voice still lightly teasing as he pushes up to his feet. "Which, you know, doesn't mean a whole lot, but I bet it doesn't help his chances."

Jensen raises an eyebrow.

"But he's also too slow, too deliberate and not nearly as accurate as Porter."

"That your expert opinion?"

"I bet you anything he's not on this team at the start of the season."

"You know _I'm_ the one who's the coach, right?" Jensen says, grinning just a little. "I'm the one making these decisions. Not you."

"Seriously. I'll bet you a _car_."

"Not the yacht?"

Jared snorts a laugh, gives Jensen a light shove. "Mark my words, dude. He won't be a Cowboy."

Rolling his eyes, Jensen heads for Jared's front door, checking his pockets for his keys. He finally manages to actually leave about ten minutes later, Jared waving at him from the top step as he slides into the front seat.


	3. Chapter 3

Kripke unveils the playbook in mid-July, dropping the heavy binder onto the meeting table with a flourish and grinning as he says, "Alright, let's get busy."

Each coach is given a copy and Jensen flips through his own 500-page tome as Kripke runs through the general offensive strategy and subsequent formations. More shotgun than I and T with a couple wildcat schemes thrown in. It's all liable to change of course, depending on training camp and how the first few games of the season play out, but the backbone is there, the foundation settled. Now they can start setting up the support beams.

Jensen's fingers skim over the lines of a classic bubble screen play that should be perfect for Jared and Aldis, and feels a familiar thrill, the excitement and expectation starting up slow in his gut.

He sometimes thinks he likes this time of year best. When everything is just starting, the hope and optimism still unmarred by a win-loss record, everything still in its infancy with so much yet to come. They have eighty some odd guys with everything to prove and a month and a half yet to mold fresh talent and mix it in with the veteran experience to form one strong, cohesive team. There's opportunity in this time of year. Possibility. The excitement in it reminding Jensen all over again why he's still in this business.

Jensen distributes the playbooks to his quarterbacks the next day with orders to have it memorized by the start of training camp in two weeks.

"You gotta be shittin' me," Grady mutters under his breath, one large hand covering the top of his new binder.

Jensen just grins at him. "Welcome to the NFL."

Grady doesn't return the smile and Jensen glances at Porter, smirks at the way his expression matches Grady's.

"C'mon, guys," Jensen says, pulling his own playbook onto his lap and flipping to the section of passing plays. "If you think this is gonna be the hardest part of your year, you're in for one hell of a rude awakening. "

That earns him a muttered grumble from Grady that Jensen doesn't bother acknowledging and Porter still looks like he's about to vomit, but Jared and Whitlow both nod in agreement.

"Wait'll the hazing starts," Jared says. "Now those'll be some good times."

"Anyone who tries tyin' me to a goalpost is gettin' his balls ripped off," Grady says and Jared's smile only widens.

"Sounds like you just volunteered yourself."

"You think I'm jokin'?" Grady snaps. "I ain't gonna be a part of that gay-ass shit."

"Relax, man," Porter cuts in. "No one's gonna stick broomsticks up our asses." He pauses a second then, shooting Jared a quick look. "They're not, right?"

Jared snorts a laugh. "No. Far as I know, no one's really into sodomy-by-household-appliance."

"No promises on the furniture, though," Whitlow supplies with a completely straight face.

"Or the light fixtures," Jared adds with a dimpled grin.

Porter's anxious expression morphs into a smile and he shakes his head in bemusement. "You people are sick," he mutters, clearly fighting a smile.

Grady still looks less than amused.

"Alright, guys, let's get to work," Jensen says then, tapping at his book. "Page seventy. Who wants to tell me what kind of defensive scheme we're looking at here?"

:::

Matt e-mails him when he's in the middle of a coaches meeting, letting Jensen know he'll be in town for the weekend. They haven't talked much since Matt's last visit, having only exchanged a few e-mails here and there, but Jensen's more than happy to meet for lunch on Saturday.

It's only afterward he wonders if it's supposed to be a date.

He shows up as planned, finds Matt already waiting for him, dressed casually and clearly happy to see him.

They eat while getting each other caught up on the past month or so before Matt invites him over to his hotel. "There's a Gossip Girl marathon all weekend on TBS," he explains as he pays the check. "I was seriously watching it for hours this morning. Almost thought I'd be late."

"Wow," Jensen remarks, fighting a smirk. "I believe that's the single gayest thing you've ever said to me."

Matt's cheeks flush an intriguing shade of red and he gives a quiet laugh. "I like Kallie Carlie, too," he admits somewhat sheepishly. "Uhm. A lot. I spent about three hundred dollars on a ticket to see her the last time she came through D.C."

"Tell me you didn't attempt to dress like her."

"Why, you have something against cat suits?" Matt asks, joking, but still looking a little embarrassed.

"Not at all," Jensen replies. He lets his gaze trail down the expanse of Matt's chest and adds, "Just... having a hard time picturing one on that body, that's all."

Matt arches an eyebrow and lets out a soft laugh, clearly picking up on Jensen's non-too-subtle attempt at flirting and says, "So, that's a yes to the hotel, then."

"Only if you promise there will be no Blair Waldorf."

"What about Chuck Bass?"

"Isn't he the asshole?"

"You know a lot more about this show than you want to let on, don't you?" Matt asks, eying him with a slow grin. "You can tell me, you know. There's really nothing to be ashamed of."

"I can promise you, I have never been a closeted Gossip Girl fan," Jensen says, laughing as he gets to his feet.

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, man."

"What is this? What the hell am I watchin' out here? Come on, _step it up_!"

Jeff's shouts are nearly swallowed up in the air of the dome and Jensen joins in, tucking his e-board under his arm as he shoves his second QB toward the field. "Porter. Porter, you're out! Whitlow in!"

Whitlow doesn't even glance his way before taking off, passing Porter who's running to the sideline. Jensen moves to meet him, brows furrowed.

"Where's your head?" he asks as Porter tugs off his helmet and wipes the back of his arm across his chin. "You're sloppy as shit out there, what's going on?"

"I don't know. Nervous, maybe."

"No room for nerves, Damon," Jensen says, his voice dropping a little lower as he ducks his head, forcing Porter to look at him. "This is training camp. You gotta show me everything you got right here if you want to make this team. We don't have time to wait for you to get comfortable."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"Okay," Jensen says, then lets himself relax a little, clapping a hand to Porter's arm. "Okay, good. Step back and relax for a minute. Keep your eye on Whitlow."

Jeff runs a few more seven-on-sevens, shouting orders to various players between snaps while Jensen takes notes on the sidelines, occasionally shifting in QBs as necessary. When he's not out on the field, Jared's wandering the sidelines, mixing in with the receivers and linemen, cajoling some guys for weak hits and others for dropped passes and constantly keeping the mood elevated in what would otherwise be a monotonous, grueling practice.

For the most part, Jensen doesn't pay him much attention, but sometimes he'll catch Jared joking around with a cluster of guys -- veterans and rookies and other assistant coaches -- and finds himself remembering back a decade or so when Jared had done the same with him. All smiles and inane conversation, trying so hard to get Jensen to like him.

Out on the field, Jared's nothing but professional. Tall and poised in the pocket, footwork impeccable, speed and accuracy well above average. There's no question who the team's starting quarterback will be, but Jared seems to execute every play like he still has something to prove, scowling to himself when he lobs a pass too high or misreads the defense and gloating playfully when he makes a good connection with a receiver. Jensen had seen evidence of it during OTAs and minicamp, not to mention on reels of game film, but it feels different here. Like Jared's really slipping into his element, revving up for the season.

When Jared gets off a nice slant pass to Demaryius Thomas, Jeff starts shouting and clapping his hands. "Good! _Good_! That's what I'm looking for! Outstanding!"

Thomas flashes a grin, ball snug between his side and elbow as he wanders back to the line and Jared's looking over to the sidelines, gaze locked on Jensen's as he smiles wide.

"You hear that, Coach?" he calls over, adjusting his jersey. " _Outstanding_. Write that one down!"

Jensen fights a grin and rolls his eyes. "Gonna have to work harder than that to impress me, Fourteen," he says as Jeff calls for a quick receiver change. "Let's see you get off a pass like that against a ten-man blitz. Then we'll talk."

"You're awfully demanding, you know that?"

"And you're awfully self-congratulatory," Jensen shoots back. "Shut up and run your play."

Smirking, Jared turns his attention back to Jeff and gets into position behind center. Jensen has him stay in for a few more plays, jotting down a note here and there before turning to send out his last QB.

"Hamilton! _Hamilton_ , you're on!" Grady's standing a few feet away, scrambling to put on his helmet and Jensen huffs a breath. "Why aren't you in your helmet? You gotta be ready! Every second out here, you gotta be _ready_. Got me?"

Grady's glances up at Jensen, eyes dark, and snaps his chin strap into place without a word.

"Hey," Jensen says, reaching up to grab the cage of Grady's face mask. He's more irritated than angry, frustration getting the better of him. "We don't have time for fuckin' around out here, Hamilto!"

Jensen's pretty sure it's only instinct that makes Grady smack at his arm and shove him away, but that doesn't make it any less surprising. Jensen's not a delicate guy by any stretch, but he no longer has pounds of pure muscle packed onto his frame like this kid. He stumbles back a few steps.

"Hey!" Jared's voice rumbles behind him. "Watch it, man. Cool down."

Whirling around, Jensen glares up at Jared. " _You_ cool down, Padalecki! Back off," he says, not waiting to see Jared's reaction before grabbing Grady by his jersey sleeve and pulling him in close, voice lowering. "You _ever_ push me again, Hamilton, and you'll be off this team so fast your head'll spin. I don't have the time or patience to deal with your attitude right now. You got something you wanna show me, you show me on the field. Period."

"Yes, sir," Grady says, a quiet, reluctant mumble.

"What was that?"

Grady's gaze sharpens and he stands up straighter. "I said _yes, sir_ ," he says, louder, jaw stubborn.

Releasing Grady's jersey, Jensen shoves him toward the field. "Get your ass out there."

He's still steaming when he sinks back into the sidelines, cap pulled low over his forehead. Jared settles in right beside him, two hands hooked in the collar of his shoulder pads and gaze focused straight ahead.

"Sorry," he says after a long moment, quiet enough that Jensen nearly misses it under the sound of players grunting and crashing on the field.

He looks over, eyebrow arched, but Jared's not looking at him. He thinks about saying something, brushing it off, but the shrill ring of Jeff's whistle calls his attention back to the task at hand and he lets it slip away. They have a job to do.

:::

Camp is just as grueling and relentless as Jensen remembers, though he hadn't quite counted on it being so hard as a coach. While there's less outright physical work, the mental work is seriously taxing. He arrives early every day to run through the practice plan with the rest of the coaching staff and stays late to meet with individual players, offering tips and highlighting areas needing improvement.

It's already exhausting work, but Jensen knows they're still in the easy stages. With the start of preseason, they'll have to narrow down the roster and his job will get a whole lot more difficult.

A week and a half in and the players and coaches hit their stride. The days are still long, guys exiting every practice dripping with sweat and cursing the day they ever decided to play the game. But the routine offers a strange sense of comfort. Of purpose. Slowly and steadily, the machine is warming up.

As the first preseason game nears, the air starts crackling with anticipation. Everyone has something to prove, expectations to meet and surpass. The team as a whole is improving by the day, though Jensen's particularly pleased with how far Porter's come. He's still making mistakes, still needs more than a little direction before he's really game-ready, but Jensen's impressed by his focus and drive to improve, how he's always one of the first out on the field in the morning and last to leave in the afternoon.

Hamilton, on the other hand, is another story.

He says as much during Monday night's assessment, Jeff nodding in agreement. "I saw better output from him in OTAs," Jensen says, resting back in his chair. "He's simply not giving his best."

"Hmm," Kripke replies, tapping a pen against his lips. "Any idea why that might be?"

"Over confidence," Jensen says. "We've only got four QBs right now and he thinks he's better than Porter."

"Is he?"

"He has the potential to be, sure. But not when he's playing like this."

Kripke taps the pen against his chin. "How do you think he'll be in a game?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Kid's got swagger, but he doesn't have the quickness to back it up yet and he doesn't know the plays as well as he should."

"That'll make Saturday interesting," Jeff says, tone more apprehensive than amused.

Kripke gives a quiet grunt of acknowledgment and scribbles something on his e-board before glancing up again. "Alright. Stuff to think about. Let's move onto running backs. Skip?"

The rest of the meeting consists of scrutinizing player performance by position, moving from offense to defense to special teams. It's tedious to some degree, but necessary, and by the end of it, Jensen has another few pages of notes to bring up with his QBs the next day.

They finish up after an hour or so and Jensen's just started gathering his things when Jeff asks him to stay behind.

Arching an eyebrow, Jensen slowly settles back into his seat as the room empties. After the last guy leaves, Jeff gets up to close the door.

"I'll keep this short, I promise," he says as he takes his seat next to Jensen again.

"You firing me?"

Jeff blinks, the hard line of his lips quivering into a startled smile as he lets out a laugh. "No. You're not getting fired."

Jensen had meant it as a joke, but he's still strangely relieved. "Hey, just making sure," he says. "I like to be prepared."

"I just wanted to touch base with you on that issue we talked about awhile back," Jeff replies and when Jensen, confused, only shakes his head, he continues: "About you making more of an effort to speak with the media about your personal life."

"Jeff..."

"No, listen," Jeff says, completely ignoring Jensen's obvious discomfort. "PR has been getting a couple requests already and with the season right around the corner, there's only gonna be more. We're not asking you to answer every one of them. Just a couple. Whichever you think you'll be most comfortable addressing."

"I'm not comfortable with _any_ of them," Jensen snaps, still managing to keep his voice down.

"You can ask for the questions in advance if you want. Refuse to answer anything too invasive."

"That's not the point and you know it."

"Jensen," Jeff says with a quiet sigh. "No one's asking you to lay bare your entire personal life. Just get out there and talk about your experiences. Maybe mention a few of your goals for the season, what you're hoping to bring to the team."

"How many other coaches are you asking to do this?"

Jeff manages to look a little guilty then, though it's brief, his expression swiftly melting into one of weariness as he slouches forward. "It's not an outrageous request, Jensen."

"How many?"

Jeff sighs. "Kripke has a few lined up with _Sports Illustrated_. I have one with _ESPN_."

Jensen waits a few second for Jeff to list a few more. Unsurprisingly, he remains silent and Jensen nods, lips pursed. "Right. That's what I thought."

" _Details_ wants to do a feature on you," Jeff says. "It's good exposure, Jen. More mainstream. Good for both you and the team."

"And why is this coming from you and not Mike?"

"Mike didn't think you'd do it." Jeff lets out a sigh and rubs a hand over his forehead. "Just-- I want you to consider it. Don't just brush me off, but _really_ consider it."

"I'm a little busy right now, Jeff," Jensen says. "Don't know if you noticed, but we're knee-deep in the middle of training camp here."

"Camp's over in a week. And they can do the interview over the phone."

"Jesus, do I even have a _choice_?"

"Of course you have a choice," Jeff replies, managing to appear insulted at the implication. "We can't force you into this, but we can -- and _will_ \-- strongly suggest you take it into consideration."

Jensen barely refrains from rolling his eyes, feels a nerve twitch in his jaw as he looks away, nearly stares a hole into the opposite wall.

"Are we done here?" he asks after a long moment, barely catching Jeff's stilted nod out the corner of his eye before pushing to his feet and leaving without another word.

:::

There's a missed call from Matt when he gets back to his room and he doesn't even bother listening to the voicemail before calling back.

Matt picks up on the fourth ring, the sound of his voice immediately making some of the tension under Jensen's skin drain away. "Hey! Wasn't expecting to hear from you."

"Sorry," Jensen replies, dropping down onto the bland couch in the front room of his hotel suite with a groan. "This is the first minute alone I've had all day."

"And you're spending it talking to me," Matt says, warm grin evident in his tone. "I'm touched."

"Just don't get insulted if I fall asleep halfway through the conversation."

"Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to me. How's practice going?"

With a heavy sigh, Jensen twists to stretch out on the couch, feet resting atop the opposite armrest as he cradles the phone against his ear. He knows Matt doesn't really care all that much about football, so keeps his descriptions of the past few days' fairly vague. Matt does a pretty good job of at least pretending to be interested, asking questions here and there about procedure and sounding suitably sympathetic when Jensen starts bitching about the long hours and draining meetings.

"And now Jeff's all over my ass about doing some bullshit interviews," he adds with a huff at the end.

"Interviews?" Matt asks. "What, like with the local media?"

"National. Magazines and shit."

There's a pause then, Matt quiet on the other end before he says, "So... Jeff _wants_ you to do interviews."

"It's some kind of stupid image thing," Jensen says, that familiar itch of discomfort flaring gnawing at him. "They're all proud of themselves for hiring a gay coach and want everyone else in the country to acknowledge how _progressive_ they are. It's all bullshit."

"Well, it _is_ pretty impressive."

"It's infuriating," Jensen argues. "It has nothing to do with being a good coach!"

"I'm sure they know that," Matt says, voice frustratingly calm. "I mean, I seriously doubt that's why they hired you. There is no affirmative action for gays, Jensen; you got the job because you're a hell of a coach and they know it."

"I got the job because Kripke and Morgan both know me. It's like one step away from nepotism."

Matt snorts a laugh. "Not what you know, but who you know."

"I know my shit," Jensen says, sounding more and more petulant even to his own ears. "Maybe they were more willing to give me a shot because they've worked with me before, that's fine. But I don't want the job just so they can market themselves as the gay-friendly team of the NFL. I'm not here to be a spokesman. I just want to to do my job."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you came out."

" _Why?_ What the fuck does it matter?"

"It matters because it's still an issue regardless of whether or not you want it to be," Matt says, the pitch of his voice rising just slightly. "There are exactly two men in the entire NFL who are out and one of them -- _you_ \-- is in a position of authority. It's a big deal, Jensen."

Grinding his teeth, Jensen presses the heel of his free hand to his forehead and gives a low growl of frustration. Matt sighs in his ear.

"I know you want me to agree with you," he says, voice a little quieter. "But I can't on this one, Jensen, I'm sorry. This is a serious social issue whether you see it or not. And you could really do some good here."

"Look, I get it," Jensen replies, nearly cutting him off. "And you're right. It's an issue, sure. But I'm not that guy. I just want to do my job and live my life. I'm here to be the QB coach not The Gay Coach."

"It's kind of too late for that."

"Can't they just find someone else?"

Matt laughs then, a quiet snort Jensen actually finds oddly comforting. The tone reminds Jensen of lazy summer afternoons back home, sharing pipe dreams with the one person who really understood him.

"I'm sure they'll be jumping all over the next professional sports star who admits to sucking dick. You're not gonna be the last," Matt tells him. "But for right now... you _are_ that guy."

Jensen grumbles again, rubs his hand over his face and huffs out a sigh. "You need to stop being reasonable," he says, reluctantly letting a hint of humor filter into his voice. "It's starting to be a turn-off."

"That right?" Matt asks, laughing softly through the phone line. "Well, shit."

"You should work on that."

"I'll see what I can do."

Jensen groans as he pushes his body into a sitting position and switches the phone from one ear to the other. "Anyway. Now that you've listened to me bitch for the past twenty minutes, tell me about your week."

Matt's chuckle is low and gorgeous and Jensen smiles as it settles into his bones, closes his eyes against the quiet, familiar drone of Matt's voice. Jensen's largely able to follow, though he suspects Matt's keeping most of it purposefully vague just as Jensen had done with the football. It's nice all the same, makes him feel like he's actually in some kind of a relationship. It's been so long that he's not sure he'd recognize the signs, but the idea feels pretty good all the same.

By the time they hang up, Jensen's still bone-tired and thinking too much. But better. Calmer. He spends a few minutes just sitting on the couch, staring at the blank television on the opposite wall before eventually heaving himself to his feet and stumbling to bed.

:::

The team flies back to Dallas for the Bills game and, though Jensen's definitely had his fair share of preseason games before, he can't help feeling like a rookie as he steps into Cowboys Stadium for the very first time.

"Impressive, huh?" Jeff says as they stand together in the middle of the field, gigantic video screen looming above their heads and stands stretching out and up in every direction. There's light pouring in from the massive sliding glass doors on either end, throwing shadows across concrete and Jensen tips his head back to see that the dome's still closed, though it will doubtlessly be opened before kick-off. It's almost eerie standing out there, so much empty space to be filled in only a few short hours. He feels tiny and powerful both at once.

He sticks a hand in his pocket and walks slowly towards one endzone. Says, "Eh," with his head still tipped back to take it all in before smirking over at Jeff. "Looks bigger on television."

The players start filtering in an hour later and Jensen stops by the locker room briefly to go through a few last minute details with his QBs. The room is huge, far bigger than the one back in Texas Stadium where Jensen had spent so much of his time, but it still seems packed tight, a good thirty extra guys who won't be around in a couple weeks taking up space. The vibe is tense as Jensen makes his way through, even some of the veterans visibly anxious as they change into their uniforms.

Jared's at one end, his locker set up next to Aldis's. They're both suited up in pants and undershirts, Jared meticulously arranging his jersey over his shoulder pads, a single iPod bud stuck in his ear.

"How do you feel?" Jensen asks, arms loosely crossed over his chest.

Jared glances up, looking at Jensen curiously from head to toe as his lips twitch into a slow grin. "Look at you, man," he finally says. "Nice shirt."

It could sound condescending coming from anyone else, but it's Jared and Jensen just glances down at the blue embroidered star on his chest and fights a grin. "First team is only gonna be out for a few series," he says, staying professional. "I want you to play fast and play well, but don't push it, alright? No injuries."

"Aw, Coach," Jared says, putting on a playful whine, "you take the fun out of everything."

"Knowing you, you'll find plenty of ways to get hurt in the regular season."

"Yeah, well. I just like to keep things interesting."

"Don't forget what we covered in our meeting yesterday," Jensen adds. "Keep an eye on their outside linebacker, number 93, the guy's pretty explosive."

"Got it," Jared says, one large hand hooked over the collar of his now-sheathed shoulder pads before he sets them aside. "You gonna be up in the booth?"

Jensen nods. "Jeff'll stay down on the field to make calls and I'll have a line into the comm helmet."

"Alright, cool."

"Let's have a good game, alright?" he says. "Show me what you got."

Jared's smile only brightens, all cocky swagger as he says, "You got it, Coach."

He finds Whitlow next, relaying some of the same information, but with a few adjustments. Second team is scheduled to play most of the first half and, though Jensen is already sure of Russell's abilities, he knows the guy is still anxious. "Just play like you have been in practice and you'll be fine," he says, giving his arm a firm clap.

Whitlow manages a nod, smile strained. Says, "Thanks, Coach. Promise I'll do my best."

Jensen finds Porter seated on the large wooden bench in front of his locker moments later, hunched forward in his pants and undershirt, hands clasped and shoulders drawn tight. Beside him, Grady's slipping into his shoulder pads, the fabric of his jersey momentarily getting stuck bneath as his head pops through the collar.

"How you two feelin'?" Jensen asks, eyeing Porter carefully.

Grady grunts his answer as he struggles to straighten his jersey and Porter glances up, eyes wide before his back snaps to attention.

"I'm good," he says, though Jensen can see he's anything but. "Ready to go, Coach."

"When are you putting me in?" Grady asks, still making adjustments with his pads. His tone immediately sets Jensen on edge, but he holds back his irritation, only arching an eyebrow in warning.

"Barring injury, not 'til the second half."

Grady doesn't appear pleased at that, lips tugging into a sharp frown, though he manages to keep his displeasure otherwise silent.

"Damon, we're hoping to get you in for at least the last few series. Hopefully a few more. But I want you ready the whole time in case we switch it up a little, got it?"

Swallowing, Porter nods and finally pushes up to his feet as Grady grumbles, "Switch it up? What do you mean _switch it up_?"

"Just what it sounds like," Jensen tells him with an overly bright smile. "Gotta be prepared. That's what it's all about."

Grady grumbles, but Jensen's not in the mood to push it and he turns back to Porter, eying the kid carefully. Where Jared had been the picture of utter calm, Porter's the complete opposite. Every movement reeks of nervousness, muscles tight and fingers jittery as he puts on his cleats.

Jensen feels anxious just _watching_ him.

"Hey," he says, voice low and firm. He taps two fingers against the kid's closely shaven head. "You're stuck in here," he says when Porter frowns up at him. "Get out for awhile. Stretch your legs. Breathe."

Porter shakes his head, clearly not getting it and Jensen gives him a small smile.

"You're not gonna do any good if you're all twisted up inside your own head before you even get out on the field," he says. "Just breathe, alright? Have some fun. I know it may not feel like it right now, but it's still just a game."

"Right," Porter says, still largely unconvinced. "Not like it's a job or nothin'."

Jensen grins. "Yeah, see. Now you got it. Nothing to lose here."

Snorting a laugh, Porter shakes his head, but his smile looks a little more genuine, little more sure, and he switches feet to tie up the other cleat.

"Just take what you've been doing in practice and carry it on the field," Jensen tells him, tone a little more serious. "The only difference between there and here is the number of people watching. It's still the same game, same plays, same routes. So just get out there and do your thing."

Porter finishes tying his laces and stands up again, rolls his shoulders back as he meets Jensen's eyes.

"Do my thing," he repeats and Jensen's smile brightens a little as he nods. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

:::

The flight back to San Antonio is quiet. It may only be preseason, but a loss is a loss and veterans and rookies alike are now far more worried for their jobs than they had been just a day ago.

A team meeting is scheduled upon immediate arrival back at camp and Jensen sits up front with the rest of the coaches as Kripke addresses the team, disappointment clear in both his tone and body language. The room is tense, air heavy with shame as Kripke goes through a few of the key mistakes, both mental and physical, the digital screen behind him playing highlights.

"We had a lot of missed opportunities," Kripke grumbles about twenty minutes in. Glancing back at the screen, he flips it ahead to show a missed pass between Hamilton and Chambers in the third quarter that had cost them a first down. "Communication breakdown," he clarifies, rewinding the play a few steps to show the angle of Hamilton's head and the trajectory of the ball in comparison to Chamber's eventual route. "We can not have this in a game that matters. This is just sloppy."

The next play is a run attempt by Harper stopped short by Clark missing a key block. After that it's a string of embarrassing false starts courtesy of the over-anxious offensive line, and then Kripke starts in on the defensive mistakes.

By the end of the hour-long meeting, it's clear there's a hell of a lot of work to be done.

The rest of the week is spent preparing for the game against Houston, though little time is spent actually studying the opposing team's players and tactics so much as focusing on their own. Tension is running high, the day-to-day pressures of camp starting to take its toll both on and off the field.

A fight breaks out in practice on Wednesday afternoon, players crashing and snarling in a tangle of blue and white. Other players surround them, some trying to get in the middle of the mess, others trying to pull it apart and Jensen lingers on the fringes, exasperated to the point of near amusement as the crowd pushes and pulls.

Sterling and Nguyen eventually manage to break it up, hurling curses while yanking guys twice their size out of the mess.

Jensen notes Jared a few feet away, helmet propped up on the crown of his head and arms crossed over his padding, watching with a blank sort of curiosity.

"You start that?" Jensen asks, teasing as he nods back over his shoulder.

Glancing over, Jared's lips tug into a slow grin. "Oh yeah. That was all me. _All_ me."

"Yeah, I figured. Troublemaker."

The fight has essentially capped the end of practice, Kripke barking orders for everyone to get their asses into the locker room and cool down and Jensen falls into step alongside Jared as they make their way towards the tunnel.

"So a couple guys are thinkin' of goin' out tomorrow night," Jared says as he tugs his helmet off. "Nothing big, just hit a few bars downtown, meet up with some old friends of mine. You wanna come?"

"You're planning on partying the night before a game?"

"It's preseason," Jared points out. "And it's not really partying. Just getting out for a night before we have to head back to Dallas. Relax for awhile. Haven't had much chance to, you know?"

Jensen isn't actually questioning Jared's professionalism, but it's fun to give him a hard time. "I can't," he replies, honest and genuinely disappointed. "Have a meeting tomorrow night."

"You can't play hooky?"

Letting out a quick laugh, Jensen shakes his head. "No."

"Man, remind me to never be a coach."

"Yeah, us coaches take our jobs pretty seriously. Unlike the rest of you slackers."

"Hey, we're the ones taking the hits out there. We aren't your dancing monkeys, you know."

"Actually, that's pretty much exactly what you are," Jensen argues, grinning as they make their way into the tunnel. "Minus the dancing. I've seen your moves, man. Terrifying."

"Fuck you, I'm an excellent dancer where it counts." Jensen arches an eyebrow and Jared's grin widens. There's a familiar glint in his eyes, a hint of something Jensen remembers all too well. "Horizontal, baby," Jared says, punctuating the remark with a ridiculous roll and sway of his hips. "I've got _moves_."

Jensen snorts a laugh, rough and more than a little awkward as he shakes his head. There are a million things he could say in response, but none that are appropriate in public so he just shoves Jared toward the locker room instead. "Go get cleaned up. I'll see you at review tonight."

If Jared's upset by the brush-off, he doesn't let it show, still all smiles as he gives Jensen a wave and then disappears beyond the door. A couple guys file in right behind him, one of them Grady Hamilton, who gives Jensen a curious look and stilted nod.

"Good practice today," Jensen tells him. He means it, too. There's been a marked improvement in Grady's performance since the Bills game, clear proof that he's maybe finally coming to understand the gravity of his situation.

Grady pauses at the door, practically sneering as he tips his chin up to say, "I know."

And Jensen has to laugh, shaking his head. "You sure as hell still need to work on that attitude," he says, giving a brittle smile as he turns away.

:::

They return to Dallas after their second preseason loss, camp effectively over for the year, though the hard work has really only just started.

The large meeting room for the coaching staff at Valley Ranch holds a white board covered in small name plates, one for every man on the current roster, offense in blue, defense in red and listed in starting order by position. As it stands after the Houston game, there are still eighty names stuck to the board. By Saturday there will be only sixty-five.

"Okay, let's take a look at what we have," Kripke says, sipping at his can of Diet Coke. "First cuts are a week away. We need to go through and decide who has starter potential, who could be a genuine contributor and who might be practice squad. We're running out of time here, folks. Jensen, get us started on QBs."

Pulling in a breath, Jensen shuffles his notes and leans forward. "Padalecki performed well," he starts, feeling a little like he's stating the obvious. "He had thirty-two snaps with eighteen completions for twenty-five attempts. Zero mentals, zero physicals. No decision-making errors or critical errors. He was focused, confident. Treated the game like he would in the regular season." He smiles a little as he glances over at Kripke. "Uhm, I don't know about the rest of you, but I think we're pretty set here."

"Anyone got further input on Padalecki?" Kripke says, smirking a little as he glances across the room.

"Well, he's a good-lookin' sonofabitch," Beaver pipes up from the opposite side of the room. "I say he loses some marks for that. And he needs a haircut."

A low rumble of laugher works through the room at that and Kripke just gives a nod as he looks to Jensen. "Okay, what else we got?"

"Whitlow had forty-five snaps. Twenty-eight completions for thirty-six attempts. Mental looked decent, had a near fumble close to the half. I'd say he's still our definite back-up. Certainly not as strong, quick or accurate as Jared, but his experience alone puts him above both Porter and Hamilton."

"What are we lookin' at for the other two?"

"Hamilton's biggest problem right now is inconsistency. He had twenty snaps in this last game, completed only eight passes out of thirteen. One of those was for fifty yards in the last two minutes. He thrives under pressure and has the potential to be a great clutch player. Otherwise, he's pretty unreliable."

"And Porter?"

"Porter's biggest problem is confidence," Jensen replies, flipping his notes to those stats. "Or lack of it. He's a contributor, maybe even a possible starter down the line, but he's still struggling with his footing right now. I think, if nothing else, he could be good on the practice squad, spend the year working under Jared and Russell."

"I doubt he'd clear waivers," Jeff says, voice a low murmur as he rubs a finger over his lips. "Carolina, Seattle and St. Louis are all on the look-out for good back-ups. Someone'll grab him."

Jensen nods his agreement and Kripke taps a pen against the table, considering.

"Okay," he says after a long moment, chair swiveling to face the large whiteboard on the side wall. He points at it with the butt of his pen. "So for QB, we're looking at Padalecki, Whitlow, Porter and then Hamilton. That right? You see any movement happening there with the Denver game?"

Sucking in a slow breath, Jensen thinks it over, rubs a hand against his temple. "Hamilton has the confidence. It may be misplaced at the moment, but he has been improving in practices. Porter's technically better in actual ability, but that lack of swagger has been his downfall in both games so far. He's struggling. If he can find some confidence here soon, he really has a legitimate shot to be on any 53 in the league."

Kripke nods again, picking up his Coke for another sip. "Okay," he says with a smack of his lips as he swallows. "Let's keep an eye on those two this coming week. See if we can't get them both a little more playing time in Denver and go from there."


	4. Chapter 4

The end of training camp brings the end of two-a-day practices and the start of a new routine. With less time on the field and fewer meetings, rookies and veterans alike are struggling to make positive impressions.

Jensen keeps a sharp eye on Porter and Hamilton throughout the week, gauging their performances as they go through timing drills with the receivers and work on their drop backs and route reads. They both do well, both clearly better than they had been at the start of training camp and Jensen makes it a point to talk to them every day.

On Thursday, Kripke has the team do a walkthrough in preparation for the Denver game. It's an inherently easier practice, but Jensen can feel the dull thrum of urgency just beneath the surface. They're two days away from first cuts and the regular season starts in two weeks. Even the guys out on the field who are sure starters are feeling the pressure, every down carefully executed, the jokes and usual team banter kept to a minimum.

Jared jogs over after practice, hair dripping with sweat and face stretched into a loose smile. "Hey."

"Hey," Jensen answers, quickly scribbling a few more notes onto his pad before tucking it under his arm. "Good work out there. Nice hustle."

Jared smiles like he finds that amusing -- which Jensen isn't entirely sure how to read -- and huffs a laugh. "Yeah, thanks. Listen, so tomorrow's game is in Denver."

"Yep."

"Well, I have Denver a tradition."

"Okay," Jensen replies, drawing the word out a little as they start making their way back inside. "Does this tradition include anything I should inform our legal department about?"

"Is getting totally shitfaced against the law?"

"Well, I doubt the league will look on it too kindly."

"You plannin' on tellin' on me?"

"I am your coach."

Jared blinks at that, smile frozen and gaze discerning before his head tips to the side. It reminds Jensen of a confused puppy. "You're kidding, right?"

"About being your coach?"

"It's a little harmless fun," Jared says, ignoring the question, his tone more insistent. "C'mon. Just come out for a few after the game. Win or lose."

"This is a tradition?"

Jared's smile slips back into place then and he huffs a laugh, shrugs one padded shoulder. "Well, kinda. Last time we played Denver, we lost the Super Bowl, so. You know. It sorta started there."

"That game wasn't in Denver."

"Yeah, well. Might as well've been."

"So wait. Let me get this straight," Jensen says, slowing to a stop. He crosses his arms loosely over his chest, cocks his head to one side. "You wanna get trashed after a pointless preseason game in an effort to forget the one you lost three years ago?"

"That and the elevation makes it cheaper," Jared says with a soft laugh. "Come on, dude, seriously. Live a little."

Jensen arches an eyebrow and studies Jared's face before glancing over his shoulder to where the rest of the team is still drifting off the field, some lingering behind to get in a few more minutes of practice.

"I'll make you a deal," he says. "We win and I'll go. We lose and you change your tradition."

"Change it to what?" Jared asks, quirking a grin.

"I don't know," Jensen admits. "Win the next Super Bowl?"

"You're placing a bet on a preseason game."

"Hey, a win's a win. You want it bad enough, you'll make it happen."

Jared smirks, shakes his head before tapping at the side of his neck with a single finger. "I'm not even gonna be on the field for most of it." Jensen just grins and Jared huffs. "You suck."

It's a wide open opportunity, but Jensen doesn't take the bait, just tilts his head in silent question before Jared finally lets out a rough laugh and nods. Holds his hand out to seal the deal.

"Fine," he says taking Jensen's, callused and sweaty. It's a firm shake and Jensen resolutely ignores that it maybe lingers a second or two too long. "But you better start preparing your liver now. It's gonna be a long night."

He gives Jensen a playful shove when he lets go and jogs backwards towards the locker room, Jensen shaking his head after him.

:::

The Cowboys lead 10-3 at the end of the first quarter thanks to a touchdown pass from Jared to Aldis and Kripke's voice in Jensen's head set says, "Alright, let's send in the second team."

Up in the booth, Jensen opens a fresh page on his notepad and takes a quick glance at the game plan for the second quarter. Russell's arm isn't as strong as Jared's so they're relying on a few more running plays and screen passes, intending to give some of the rookie backs a shot at making an impression.

The plan works, with Michael Satuyi, one of the team's free agency acquisitions, running in a touchdown just five minutes before the half. The Broncos counter with a field goal on their last drive, but the Cowboys still go into halftime with a strong lead and the mood up in the booth is one of tentative relief.

Jensen takes off his headset and stretches his back before wandering to the restroom for a much-needed pee break. He has a few minutes to kill when he gets back, the halftime performance still in full swing on the field below, and he spends it going over his notes.

"Not a bad half," Whitfield says, wandering into the booth a few minutes later with a bottle of water in one hand and a basket of nachos in the other. He holds it out to Jensen in invitation. "So much for a Denver dynasty, right?"

Smirking, Jensen bites into a cheese-covered chip. "Game's not over," he manages through his bite.

As the teams jog out for the second half, Jensen slides his headset back on and adjusts the microphone piece in front of his mouth. "Put Porter in," he says. There's a stretch of silence before Jeff's voice filters through.

"We decided to put in Hamilton first."

"I know," Jensen says. "And the kid's probably psyching himself out right now for something he thinks is still an hour or so away. Put him in now before he has too much longer to think about it."

"I'm not sure about that," Jeff grumbles, wariness evident in his tone. "Krip?"

There's a click and then a new rush of sound. Jensen can hear the stadium announcer's voice echo through the line, muffled behind the shouts of the players on the sidelines, the slap of hands on pads. "Game plan calls for Hamilton," Kripke says over the noise. "That's what the offense is ready for."

"So keep the game plan, but put in Porter."

"We're doing a lot more T than he's used to," Jeff points out and Jensen nods, eyes still focused down on the sidelines. He can see Jeff looking up at him, white laminated sheet in one hand, the other resting against the comm device on his hip. "You really think he can do it?"

"I know he can," Jensen says. "Just needs a kick in the ass, something to shove him out of his own head space."

There's a silence then and Jensen darts a glance to his left, sees Whitfield watching him with an amused smirk, Jim just beyond him rubbing his eyes. He can't tell if they're with him on this or not and he's fairly sure he doesn't care either way. It will either work or it won't.

"Fuck it," Kripke finally says a few moments later. "It's preseason, let's give it a shot."

There's a brief rattle of chaos as Kripke covers up the mouthpiece to shout for Porter and Jensen releases a breath, rests back in his chair for a second before quickly gathering and rearranging his notes.

He can't make out Porter's face, but can imagine the wide-eyed look easily enough as Jeff pulls him aside to tell him the news while the special teams unit jogs onto the field for the kickoff. Their conversation filters through the headset, Porter's obvious nerves clear even through the mask of bravado. He can see the kid fidgeting with the cage of the helmet in his hand.

"Okay, listen to me," Jensen says the minute Porter finally puts on his helmet to head out onto the field. It's a one-way communication link so Porter can't respond and Jensen keeps his speech short. "I know you're freaking out right now, man, but you can do this. I know you can do this. Just breathe and focus and stay aware, alright? It's just a quick shot to the outside post. Nothing you haven't done a hundred times in practice." He shuts up when Porter gets to the huddle, watches the team gather around him before breaking and heading to the line.

Porter's voice at scrimmage is loud enough to hear through the headset, filtering in through both Kripke's and Jeff's mouth pieces and Jensen finds himself holding his breath, one hand clenched into a fist as the kid drops back and scans the defense, looking for his open receiver to the left and then releasing, ball flying high and fast and right into the hands of Denver's free safety.

"Ah, _fuck!_ "

The guy gets a good ten yards before he's tackled to the turf and then immediately springs upward, relishing the cheers of the home crowd.

Through the headset, Jeff says, "Well, that didn't work."

Letting out a sigh, Jensen shakes his head. "Keep him in," he says before turning on the comm link to Porter's helmet again, tone shifting only slightly. "Alright, that sucked," he admits, rubbing a hand against his cheek. "But hey, there's your first interception in the NFL. Congrats. Sure as hell isn't gonna be your last, but it's always good to get that first one of the way."

Porter's shoulders are slumped as he heads for the sidelines and Jensen keeps talking. "Shake it off," he says, still watching him carefully, some of the guys patting Porter's arm in sympathy as he passes, others seeming to give him a wider berth, as though afraid of catching his bad luck. "Don't forget about it, you can't do that. Think about what happened, what was going on around you, figure out if it was timing or a misread or your receiver missing his route. Figure it out, decide what you could've done differently, remember it for next time and move on. I'm watchin' you up here, nod if you're listening."

Porter's helmet bobs up and down and Jensen lets out another breath. Says, "Good. Okay. Now take off your helmet, relax for a little bit and get ready for the next series. You're not through yet."

The turnover results in a Denver touchdown only a few minutes later, but then the Cowboys offense is back out on the field, Porter once again at the helm.

"Let's do this," Jensen tells him before adding: "Go for a Sixty-seven Triple-Chevy Black Burn."

Once again, Jensen holds his breath as the ball's snapped into Porter's hands. He drops back -- still needs some work on his footwork, Jensen notes -- and scans the defense, pumps a fake to the left before passing straight up the middle to Sualua, who gains another five yards and a first down.

"There we go, _there_ we go," Jensen says, as he settles back into his chair. "Excellent read, Damon. Now grab onto that momentum and hold it. You've got this."

Kripke jumps onto the line to order a reverse and about three minutes and sixty yards later, Porter has his first NFL touchdown.

Jensen waits half a second for the official's signal and then jumps to his feet, very nearly ripping off his headset in his excitement as down on the field Porter leaps into the arms of the nearest lineman.

Kripke and Jeff are both yelling right along with the rest, the comm line nothing but about twenty seconds of unintelligible chaos before Jeff's voice comes through again, sounding winded, but pleased. "Well, if that don't give the kid some confidence, I don't know what the hell will."

On the next offensive series, Porter marches the team down to within easy field goal range, bringing the score up to 27-13.

"Kid's lookin' good," Whitfield says after the score is on the board and Jensen glances over, not bothering to hide his smug smile.

They switch in Hamilton in the fourth quarter but, save for a Bronco field goal just before the two minute warning, the score stays unchanged. Hamilton does decently, his passer average not technically much worse than Porter's and, all things considered, Jensen's pretty pleased with the output from all four of his players.

Which, of course, will make for difficult decision-making come the next day, but he's refusing to think about that for the moment. Right now, with the fans slowly filtering out of the stadium and the other coaches congratulating each other on a job well done, he's thinking only about how good it feels to win.

:::

Porter slides his beer across the table and leans back. "Okay, I'm done."

Jared's eyes widen as he swallows his sip and shakes his head, reaches out to grab hold of Porter's forearm. "Dude, you can't," he says, the alcohol seemingly making him even more earnest than normal. "This is your night, man!"

Porter twists his wrist and pulls away, shoots Jensen a quick glance for support as he gets to his feet. "It was one touchdown. In a preseason game."

"The first of many, my friend. And the first is always one of the best."

Jensen chuckles against the rim of his bottle. "Let him go, Jay. Kid's up past his bedtime already."

"No, c'mon," Jared says, grabbing at Porter's shirt with one hand while raising the other in an attempt to get the bartender's attention. "Excuse me, sir! Can we get another Corona here for my good friend, Number Six, please?"

"Dude, seriously," Porter says, twisting away again. "I am _done_. I gotta call my girl, get some rest. Try not to think about the possibility of filing for unemployment tomorrow."

"Hey, you know what's a great way to do that?" Jared says before shoving his half-empty beer in the air. " _Drinking!_ "

Jensen groans. "Please stop being a bad influence."

"I'm just tryin' to help."

"You're drunk," Jensen says.

"That, too," Jared agrees and takes another sip of his beer. "Also, awesome. Don't forget awesome."

Ignoring him, Jensen turns his attention back to Porter. "You played a good game today, Damon. Seriously."

"I was only in for twenty minutes."

Jensen smirks. "Okay, you played a good twenty minutes. Point still stands."

Porter grimaces a little, shrugs as he scratches at the side of his neck. "I just hope it's good enough to make the team."

Jensen's not nearly drunk enough to make any promises and not cruel enough to give the guy hope that may very well get shattered as early as the next day. Jensen's not the only one making the decision, after all. So he only nods and says the one honest thing he can divulge at the moment: "Well, I'm proud of you."

Porter breathes a quick laugh and ducks his head. Says, "Thanks Coach," just as Jared shatters the moment by making obnoxious coo'ing noises.

"Ya'll are adorable," he says. "Really. I feel like I'm watching _Rudy_ or something. Ooh! Yes!" Lunging forward, Jared grabs the bottle of Corona from the waiter and immediately thrusts it into Porter's hand. "Here, take this with you. As my heartfelt parting gift."

"Uhm," Porter says, once again darting a glance at Jensen. "Alright. 'Night, guys."

Jared claps a hand on the kid's shoulder one last time before they both watch him turn and head out of the bar.

"Dude, are you high?" Jensen asks once Porter's out of ear shot. "What's up with you?"

Jared snorts a laugh and then lifts his bottle up again, gives it a shake.

"I've seen you drunk before, Jay. You're not usually this..." He trails off, expecting Jared to jump in and finish the statement with some outrageous or sarcastic remark. Instead, Jared just shrugs, loose smile still in place.

"What, am I not allowed to be in a good mood?"

"Sure," Jensen says. "But if this is how excited you get over a preseason game, I'm terrified of what you'll do if we make the playoffs."

"Mm-mm," Jared says, shaking his head as he swallows another sip of his beer. " _When_. Not if. You're a coach now, you're not allowed to use 'if' anymore."

Jensen smirks. "Oh yeah. I think that's actually written into my contract somewhere."

"Right under 'Must wear a stupid shirt and ugly shorts.'"

"Which I'm also ignoring. Think I'll get fined for that?"

Jared chuckles, gives a wry shake of his head. Grinning, Jensen prepares himself for another sarcastic remark, but Jared only takes another long sip and sets down his bottle. Says, "They're doin' a good job with the stadium so far. The expansion, I mean."

It takes Jensen a couple seconds to figure out exactly what Jared's talking about and, even when he does, he's still not sure how it has to do with anything.

Jensen shrugs. "Yeah, it's comin' along, I guess."

"Should look really cool when it's done," he says, tone less playful and more thoughtful. "The dome will kinda take the fun outta of playin' in Denver, though."

"Yes, because you've played so many here," Jensen says with a quiet snort.

"Three," Jared says, pointing a finger. "One of 'em in December. No snow, though."

"Bummer." He's only half kidding.

"Seriously. Man, I remember playin' games in pissing down rain in high school. Sliding around in mud for sixty minutes and pickin' grass and crusty shit outta my armpits after, you know? Remember watching games when I was little, guys up in Buffalo and Chicago and New York or wherever. Snow comin' down and people in the stands clearly freezing their butts off, but the game's still on and there's no way they were goin' home. And those were always the best, too. The best games. Like crazy weather meant anything could happen.

"And they just... they don't have that anymore," he continues, leaning forward as his words get more earnest. "Now it's all pristine Astroturf and shiny uniforms and 3D bullshit for the folks at home. There's no _grit_ anymore, man. No Man versus The Elements. Everyone's got a dome and a fuckin' Jumbotron. Takes all the fun out of it."

Amused by Jared's rant, Jensen just grins against the rim of his bottle. "Well. At least there's still Lambeau."

Jared snorts a laugh, but nods his agreement. Swallowing another ship of beer, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back in his chair with a heavy exhale. "Gen's gonna be covering the Olympics here," he says then, a little quieter. "Well, I mean. She hasn't told me, but I'm assuming. She did Sochi and Munich, so I just figure..."

He trails off to take another sip of his beer, head tipped back as he empties it. Jensen does his best to not stare at the bob of Jared's Adam's apple.

"Mmm, also?" Jared says, still finishing his last swallow as he meets Jensen's gaze again. "You got any idea how surreal it is to be interviewed by your ex-wife? Seriously awkward," he says and then turns his attention back up to the bar, waving his empty bottle in the air. "Hey, can I get a couple more over here?"

Sliding the bartender a nervous look, Jensen tries to mentally calculate how many beers Jared's had so far. The fact that he can't even remember how many he's had himself is probably not a good sign.

"She was-- man, it was Seattle. Couple years back. Last game of the season. It was a totally gutting game, I mean we got our asses kicked but good and she was out there on the field right after, made a beeline right for me and started asking all the same stupid questions they always ask, but I could see... man, I could _see_ how happy she was. Fucking schadenfreude just _radiating_ , y'know?"

Jensen doesn't say anything, just drags his fingertips over the glass of his bottle, keeping a wary eye on Jared as he continues.

"It was just. I wanted to punch her. Like seriously, just..." He makes an abortive motion with a clenched fist, lips pressed in a thin line. "And I _know_ she wanted to do the same to me, but. We were standing there, surrounded by all those fucking cameras and she had to look all quietly sympathetic and I had to just spout out the same bullshit and pretend I'd never..."

When he trails off this time, Jensen can't pretend he's not relieved. It's already more than he really wanted to hear.

Lifting his bottle to his lips, Jensen finishes it with a few slow swallows, wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his thumb. Finally says, "So. When did you become a moody drunk?"

Jared's eyes drag over to Jensen's, his lips tugging into a frown and brow creasing before his expression clears completely on a blink. "Dude, fuck you," he says on a rough laugh. "I'm, like, spilling my fucking guts here."

Jensen smirks and rests back in his chair as two full bottles are placed in front of them. "Thanks," he says to the waiter and then to Jared adds, "I'm your coach, not your therapist."

Jared quiet for a moment, eyes narrowing a little as he tilts his head.

Jensen arches an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothin'. Just... what happened to you being my friend?"

"Who says I'm not your friend?"

Jared shrugs as he reaches for one of the bottles. "I mean, it's been awhile, right? And you didn't even come to my wedding." Jensen blinks and Jared huffs a breath as he shakes his head, takes another sip of beer. "Forget it. I'm just..." his lips curl into a slight sneer while he gestures vaguely with one hand.

Jensen's only answer is a quiet nod before staring down at his own beer, picking at the label with his thumbnail. The air feels thick, weighted down by all the things they're carefully not saying and Jensen's pretty content to let it stay that way. But he knows Jared and knows that, even if they don't talk about it now, it'll come up later. Possibly while they're both sober and Jensen _really_ doesn't want to have this conversation without a good amount of alcohol in his system.

"You know why I didn't," he says, managing to keep his voice quiet and even.

And Jared surprises him by nodding, shoulders hunched forward as he draws a slow, invisible circle on the table top with the butt of his bottle. "I know. Knew it then, too. But."

"I sent a gift."

"Yeah," Jared says, lips twitching faintly at one corner. "Gen really liked those, by the way. Probably still has 'em."

Jensen gives a soft snort and nods. Figures.

"Guess it really doesn't matter anyway."

Jensen isn't quite sure what Jared means by that, but doesn't ask. Just takes in the slouch of Jared's shoulders and the curve of his fingers against the bottle. Says, "I'm sorry. That it didn't work out, I mean."

"But not sorry for ditching," Jared replies, the curve of his lips seemingly trying to show he means it as a joke.

Jensen isn't feeling it.

Jared's gaze flicks away and he breathes in sharply, rolls his shoulders back. "Okay, well great as this moment is, I really need to piss," he says, sliding off his stool and clapping one warm hand on Jensen's shoulder as he weaves past.

Jensen turns to watch him over his shoulder, making sure he's safely around the corner before taking another long swig of his beer. Getting the bartender's attention, he asks for the tab and pulls out his wallet. The beer in his system makes him sway once he's on his feet again, the room tilting slightly and he resigns himself to drinking a shitload of water once he gets up to his room.

He's just pocketing his wallet when Jared returns.

"Dude, you better not be pussyin' out on me," Jared says, brows furrowed as he squeezes past Jensen. He blinks down at the signed receipt. "Wait, did you just pay?"

"Wasn't sure you'd be able to sign your name."

"Fuck you, I'm not that drunk," Jared with a very faint smile. "You weren't supposed to. This was my idea."

Jensen shrugs. "I'll let you get the next one."

Jared's still frowning when Jensen hands him his beer, but he doesn't put up any further argument. Likely because it takes most of his concentration just to get to the elevator without knocking into anything. They're quiet on the way up, Jared leaning back against the wall, beer bottle held close to his chest.

"Make sure you down some water and Advil before you hit the sack," Jensen murmurs as they pass floor ten.

Jared gives a quiet huff of a laugh. "Yes, Coach."

"Actually, I'm saying that one as your friend," Jensen replies. "As your coach, I don't give a shit so long as you show up to practice and give me your all."

"What if I show up and puke on you?"

"Thousand dollar fine."

Jared snorts a laugh and the elevator dings and slows to a stop on the nineteenth floor. Jensen hesitates for a second as the doors slide open before stepping halfway out, looks back to see Jared's loose, but somewhat dim smile.

"Night, Jay," he says and Jared gives him a nod, saluting with his bottle.

Jensen doesn't miss the way Jared's smile completely evaporates as the doors slide closed.

:::

First cuts are decided at 3:00 the next day. Both Porter and Hamilton make it through.

Practice resumes on Monday morning with a team meeting, Jensen sitting at the front of the room with a few of the other coaches, watching players filter in one by one as they make it past the Turk in the front lobby. When the meeting begins at 8:00 AM sharp, there are fifteen empty seats and the air is heavy, a mix of relief and mounting dread visible on nearly every single face.

The pressure only intensifies as the week wears on, a few minor fights breaking out during drills and tense, heavy silences filling up the dead space during meetings.

On Wednesday, Jared and a few sure starters on the O-line join forces to try and lighten the mood by engaging in a full-out farting contest in the middle of team stretches. Jensen gets caught in the line of fire.

"Oh my god," he says, ostentatiously coughing and wheezing as he waves a hand in front of his face. "Are you going by volume or stench, Padalecki? Christ."

"Both," Jared says, grinning wide as he arches his back, stretching out his right quad. "Points for length, volume, aroma and ingenuity. You wanna be judge and jury?"

"Thanks, but I'd rather rip out my own leg hair."

"Oh, come on. This is some serious shit here; we need someone impartial."

"I wouldn't be impartial," Jensen says, wandering over to stand safely between Whitlow and Porter. "For one thing, I'd have you disqualified immediately just for being a pain in my ass."

"Not allowed. It's my game and I say no disqualifying."

"As judge and jury, my opinion overrules yours."

"False," Jared says, switching to stretch the other leg. He tilts his hips a little, his face pulling into a grimace as he lets another one rip, the sound of it only muffled by his football pants. "I have veto power."

He looks entirely too pleased with himself, but Jensen doesn't even blink. "I give it a three."

Jared's smile falters. "You're fired."

"Y'all are disgusting," Hamilton mutters and Jensen really can't argue. "Like a fuckin' middle school over here. Jesus."

From about ten yards away, Iupati answers with his own long and pronounced fart that immediately sends half the people behind him alternately groaning and laughing.

Jensen glances over, fighting a grin. "Men, I think we have a winner."

The rest of practice is fairly uneventful, the farting antics doing a good job of easing some of the tension, though not for very long. By the end of field work, most of the team is back to being prickly and irritable, exhaustion making tempers flare as they head into the locker room. And by the time Jensen and his quarterbacks are gathered for their afternoon position meeting, even Jared is in a bad mood, his earlier, easy smile completely gone as he drops into his seat.

Up front, Jensen arches an eyebrow in his direction, but Jared is studiously not looking at him. Instead, his gaze is locked on Hamilton, staring daggers into the kid's back as he moves to sit near the front.

"Did I miss something?" Jensen asks as Grady takes his seat, Whitlow dropping into the spot next to him with Porter just behind. The question is directed at Grady, but it's Jared who speaks up.

"Nope," he says, voice firm.

Jared's a pretty shitty liar at the best of times and he's clearly not even _trying_ in this case.

Jensen gives a low grunt and turns to Hamilton. "Grady?"

Hamilton glances up briefly and shrugs, his face giving away his obvious irritation. Which, as far as Jensen's been able to tell, is pretty much the kid's default expression.

"You got something to get off your chest?"

Grady's lips curl into a sneer. "Nope."

Jensen doesn't believe him for a second, but he turns his attention to the last two. "Porter? Whitlow?"

"I'm good, Coach," Porter says, tone devoid of the open irritation coming from the other two, while Whitlow only nods.

Jensen waits it out for a few more moments, but it's clear his players aren't giving him anything else to go on and he decides to let it go. "Alright," he says, flipping on the digital wall screen without another thought. "Then let's get to work."

:::

Jensen tugs off his headset as the last few seconds of the game tick off the clock. He lets it drop to the tabletop with a clatter and leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his eyes.

"That could've gone a hell of a lot better," Whitfield says.

"Half the stadium left twenty minutes ago," Beaver says from a few feet over. "Kinda wish they'd taken me with 'em."

"Think anyone would notice if we just left now?" Jensen asks.

Jim glances over, a glimmer of a smirk curving his lips. "Feel free to give it a shot. Could be a fun experiment."

However tempting it is to head home, Jensen gathers up his notes and heads down to the locker room ten minutes later, just in time to catch the very tail end of Kripke's post-game speech.

"Despite what that scoreboard out there may indicate and no matter what happens tomorrow... every single man in this room is an outstanding athlete. You have all put in some incredible work these past few weeks. Some real blood, sweat and tears. Every man here has fought for his right to be on this team and if I had my way, I would absolutely keep every last one of you. I'm sure some of you don't believe that, but I mean it."

He goes quiet then, eyes searching the room like he's challenging them to question his sincerity before deflating somewhat. "Alright, let's take it out and go home," he says, reaching one hand out, a few players in various stages of undress stepping in to meet him. "Cowboys on three. One, two, three -- _Cowboys_!"

:::

The discussion for final cuts starts first thing Saturday morning and Jensen spends the entire meeting fighting a slight hangover.

By ten, they have a list of five players they hope will clear waivers and remain eligible for the practice squad. A half an hour later, they've added three more -- two receivers and a tackle -- before Kripke leans back in his chair and says, "Alright, let's look at QB."

Taking his cue, Jensen sits up and straightens his notes. "Well, it's down to Porter or Hamilton," he says, cutting right to it. "They've both shown consistent improvement in practice and game situations, have really stepped up and given their all in training camp. If we look at just their performances in the past few games..." he trails off a second as he flips through his notes and Jeff chimes in.

"I'm worried about Hamilton's ability to keep hold of the ball in the backfield. He's fumbled twice in the past three games."

At the other end of the table, Andrew says, "Kid has a serious attitude problem, too."

That's not exactly news to Jensen, but he somehow finds it odd coming from Andrew. He nods, though, rubs a finger along his bottom lip. "To be honest, I'm not sure how badly Hamilton even wants to be here," he says after a moment.

Kripke arches an eyebrow at him. "Here as in Cowboys or the league?"

"Cowboys."

"And what gives you that impression?"

Jensen gives a vague nod over at Andrew. "General attitude," Jensen says. "He's doing his job, no question, but he isn't pleased about it. He wants to be higher up on the ladder than he is, wants a better chance at a starting spot. One he won't get here."

"And he doesn't like working under a gay coach," Doug Farish adds.

It's abrupt and not said kindly, but Jensen makes no move to argue the point. Kripke glances down the table at Farish, gaze discerning as a heavy silence settles over the room. Jensen's sexuality has never been addressed out in the open, not like this.

But he's not fighting this one. He knows Doug's right.

Kripke seems to consider it for another few moments, lips pursed while Jeff roughly clears his throat, and says, "Hell, that settles it for me. Do us all a favor."

Jensen manages a faint smile at that and there's a rumble of both assent and disagreement as the option's considered.

"Do you think you could continue working with him if he stays?" Kripke asks.

Jensen shrugs. "I'm not the one who has the problem."

"Not until he decides you're not worth listening to," Doug says. "And who knows how long before that happens."

Kripke lets out a heavy sigh and rests back in his chair, threads his hands behind his head. "And Porter?"

"Porter's a good kid. Cooperative. Attentive. Still needs a lot of work, but he has definite promise. I think we could work him up to being a solid back-up as early as next year. He has greater arm strength than Russell, better work in the backfield. He just lacks experience."

"He's been your guy from the get-go, hasn't he?"

Jensen lets himself smile a little. "I know how to pick 'em."

"Yeah, I bet," comes a grumble from Jensen's left.

"Look, they're both good," Jensen says, studiously ignoring the comment. "Porter has a great attitude and love for the game. He has good arm strength and decent speed, both of which will improve with time. I see him being a certain back-up and maybe an eventual starter in two or three years. Hamilton has a good head and mind for the game. He's not as quick as Porter, but, at the moment, has a better arm. He needs to work some on ball control outside the pocket and timing issues, but he's a definite contender in this league."

"Okay, then let's throw that out," Jeff says, sounding a little gruffer. "They're both pretty well matched in terms of talent and ability, right?"

"Hamilton's better at placeholding," Beaver says, then arches an eyebrow when every eye in the room looks to him. "Hey, I'm just throwin' it out there. They can both do it fine, but I'm less worried about him bobblin' the damn thing under duress."

Jensen's lips twitch into a faint smile, but he gives a nod all the same. It's a small thing, maybe, but still important. The team does need a placeholder.

"Well, there we go," Jeff says, smacking his hand against the table. "Solved."

"Jensen?" Kripke says, smirking faintly though otherwise ignoring Jeff.

Jensen's smile slips a little as he pulls in a slow breath and lets it out, takes a minute to really consider it before offering a shrug. "My instincts say go with Porter. Everything else being equal, he's the guy fitting in best with the team. And I don't think he'll disappoint us."

"Except maybe on a crucial field goal," Jim grumbles, though it's clear by the very small crinkle in his eyes that he's mostly joking.

Kripke nods, lips pursed and then leans forward, pen in hand. "Alright, Ackles, I'm holdin' you to that," he says with no hint of a smile as he writes quickly then glances up again. "'Kay, we need four more, guys. Pete, run us through the O-line."

:::

"Okay, give it to me. I can take it."

Smirking, Jensen mutes the television and sinks back into the couch as the talking head on CNN continues her coverage of the DNC in Cleveland. He's been watching for the last hour or so, trying to get caught up on all the news he's been too busy to notice over the past several days.

He should probably be more surprised by the fact that Jared's interrupting. Maybe a little annoyed.

"Just... gimme a second," Jared says through the phone line before huffing an exaggerated breath. "Okay. Okay, yeah, I'm ready. Lay it on me."

"You're kind of an ass, you know that?" Jensen says, unable to keep the smile off his face.

"Does that mean I made the team?"

"Guess you're just gonna have to wait and see like everyone else."

"You suck."

"Dude, there are guys at home right now seriously trying not to vomit over this. And you know there isn't a shot in hell you didn't make it so shut up."

"Aww, you think I'm awesome," Jared says, voice a near sing-song.

Jensen rolls his eyes. "I'm hanging up," he says and does just that before Jared can respond. Grabbing the remote, he flips the mute off just in time to catch footage of Brian Schweitzer accepting his nomination as the Democratic Party candidate. His phone starts ringing again and Jensen ignores it, biting back a smile.

On Jared's fourth attempt, Jensen finally caves.

"Dude. Don't make me call the cops for harassment."

"I wasn't done!"

"I'm tryin' to catch up on the news, man. This is the first night I've had to myself in a week and a half."

"Oh, you poor baby. My heart bleeds, seriously. Did Grady get cut?"

"You'll find out tomorrow."

"He totally did, didn't he?" Jared says, sounding damn near gleeful. "Man, I so called it!"

"Yes, Jay, you're a goddamned psychic. Can I go now?"

"You're not fucking with me, are you?" Jared says, clearly ignoring Jensen's question. "Grady's really gone?"

Jensen drops his head back and stares blankly up at the ceiling. "Why the hell do you care so much?"

"I don't," Jared replies, tone less playful. "I just wanna know if I should prepare myself for having to deal with that jackass for the rest of the season."

"And you can't wait one day to find out like everyone else?"

"Well, it's probably in pretty poor taste to do a dance of celebration in front of the rest of the team. Figured I'd better get it out of my system so I can appear suitably sympathetic in the meeting."

Jensen gives a huff of a laugh despite himself. "So classy."

"So you're not fucking with me, right? He's really gone."

For a second, Jensen considers drawing it out a little, making Jared really worry. He can't deny that Hamilton's an asshole, though he does find it interesting that Jared hates him so much. Jared's not the type to dislike someone unless they really give him a reason. He kind of wants to ask, but instead just says, "Yeah, he's gone. He'll probably get picked up by Pittsburgh or Arizona. Maybe St. Louis."

"Lucky them."

"You doing your dance now?"

"You have no idea," Jared says, laughter clear in his voice once again. "My hips are out of control."

"Thank God my eyes have been spared."

"Don't know what you're missing, man. I'm break dancing right now, it's crazy."

Smirking, Jensen just shakes his head. "I'm hanging up now. Again. Be careful of rug burn."

"I'll send you a video."

"Please don't."

He hangs up on Jared's laughter and, twenty minutes later, has a video message of Jared attempting to do some kind of handstand in the middle of his living room.

' _You injure yourself before our first game and I will KILL YOU._ ' he texts in reply.

' _I am in INVISIBLE_ ,' Jared texts back, followed almost immediately by, ' _INVINCIBLE. Fucking auto fill._ '

Laughing, Jensen resists the urge to reply with even an all-too-easy snide remark and tosses his phone aside, revels in the easy, comfortable silence of his own living room before passing out in front of the television less than an hour later.


	5. Chapter 5

Porter is one of the first in on Monday morning, still looking a little jittery from passing the Turk in the lobby, bag slung over his shoulder. Jensen watches him take a quick sweep of the room before sliding into a seat next to Abel and resting back, head tipped as he lets out a heavy breath and rubbing a hand over his face. Jensen smiles a little, waiting for the kid to look over at him before giving a quick, supportive nod.

Kripke calls the meeting to order shortly after the last few players trickle in. He gives a requisite speech, reminding everyone why they're still there, why they were chosen over the twelve men who got cut, and what's expected of them for the next few months. It's not a long talk, not too heavy, but the message is more than clear: this is the real thing now, where it all starts to matter. The pressure of training camp is nothing compared to what they have to look forward to now.

From there, it's straight into working on the plan of attack for the Giants game, complete with film from the past few preseason games and a rundown on the Giants offensive and defensive schemes. Jensen takes notes along with the players, paying particular attention to the breakdown of the their opponent's defense and jotting down his own ideas for combating a few of them to bring up with Kripke and Jeff later.

Field practice immediately follows, a grueling few hours in the Texas heat where they try some of the plays Kripke had outlined in the morning meeting.

"Alright, let's run it in!" Kripke calls out as lunch time nears. "Good hustle, good hustle! Keep it up!"

After the break, it's a round of position meetings where Hamilton's absence in the small QB room is immediately evident, his normal spot empty at Porter's side. Nobody acknowledges it out loud, however. There's no need. Jensen just gathers up his notes and flips on the digital screen, dives right into the business at hand.

"Alright, New York is a three-four," he says, tapping his stylus against the screen. "Greatest weapon is number ninety-one, Todd Downey. Their Will. The guy is huge, quick and extremely physical."

"Hits like a freakin' freight train," Jared agrees with a low murmur as Jensen clicks the screen into motion, showing a few clips of Downey hammering his way through various teams' offensive lines and barreling into quarterback after quarterback. The last clip is from the 2017 season, a shot of Jared throwing the ball barely half a second before getting gracelessly slammed to the turf. Jared gives a low, exaggerated sigh. "Concussion number four," he says, smirking faintly as he holds up as many fingers.

"You can bet our O-line is gonna be working hard to make him a non-issue, but you gotta be ready for him all the same. Be aware without losing focus on your receivers and backs. At all times. Okay?"

Porter and Whitlow both nod and Jensen cuts a glance over to Jared.

"Dude makes heavy footsteps," he says, shifting in his chair. "Kinda hard to lose track of."

Whitlow gives a quiet snort at that. "You say that before he nailed your ass to the ground the last time?"

"Hey, I knew exactly where he was," Jared says. "Got rid of the ball before he got to me, didn't I? Took the hit like a man."

"A man who then had to sit out two games," Jensen replies, one eyebrow arched. "Let's not try that again, alright? One more hit to the head could be your last, Padalecki."

Jared shrugs. "Man, at this stage, one more hit ain't gonna matter much."

"Not arguin' that one," Whitlow mutters and Jensen flashes him a grin before quickly getting down to business once more. Downey's the most dangerous defensive player the Giants have, but he's in no way the only guy they need to worry about.

Tuesday's practice is more of the same with some conditioning scheduled for the afternoon. The position meetings are shorter, but more focused as the game plan starts to solidify. Wednesday's schedule is a repeat of Monday, the morning team meeting followed by field practice followed by lunch and position meetings and team review, while Thursday's is a repeat of Tuesday. Practice on Friday is slower and more low-key with a walk-through in the morning and team review in the afternoon.

The players and coaches get Saturday off, their only requirement to get their asses to the team hotel in Grapevine before curfew that night. It's an ordeal reserved for the regular season when there aren't thirty additional players to worry about accommodating so it's a first time experience for a good dozen or so guys on the team. Jensen included.

The team hotel is the Gaylord Texan, a huge, glass domed structure that holds thousands of rooms along with a few restaurants and bars and a couple dozen boutique shops. The adjacent convention center, attached via a long, wide hall at the back end of the hotel, holds a yearly Christmas ice sculpture spectacle that is, as Jensen understands it, the biggest draw of the place. He's fairly sure he remembers Josh mentioning taking the boys there a couple times and idly wonders if he can get them all a discount for this year's exhibit.

As the hotel is still open to the public, most of the players enter through a private side entrance and are quietly escorted to their rooms, all coaches and team veterans assigned their own, while rookies and first-year free agents are required to share with a teammate.

Jensen arrives fairly early, a bellhop leading him through the back halls and elevators up to his room on the eleventh floor. His window looks out onto a stretch of rolling land, well-manicured bushes and trees dotting the landscape. It's not the best view, really, though Jensen doubts he'll be spending much time looking out his window anyway.

He spends a couple hours reviewing the playbook, jotting down a few last-minute notes before his phone buzzes, knocking him out of his thoughts. It's Jeff.

"You here yet?"

Jensen tucks the phone against his shoulder and flips through his notepad, reshuffling his notes. "Got here awhile ago," he says, glancing briefly down at his watch. "I'm thinking food soon. Up for it?"

"The sports bar here is pretty decent," Jeff replies. "What room are you in?"

They meet up minutes later and head down to the main level, passing more than a few people who seem to recognize them and get a table. It's situated near the back, but the massive plasma screen adorning the entire far wall is still clearly visible, the main section of which is showing the last quarter of the Texas Tech-Florida State game.

"Not a bad gig, huh?" Jeff says as they slide into the booth, lips twisted in a cocky sort of grin.

"Eh," Jensen says, eying the huge screen beyond Jeff's shoulder. "Seen bigger."

Jeff arches an eyebrow and Jensen knows he's left himself wide open to a multitude of remarks, but Jeff just shakes his head as he grabs the drinks list.

They stay through the end of the Texas Tech game and well into the following baseball game before calling it a night. Jensen's full on meat and beer and, though it's still relatively early, he can already feel the nerves starting to prickle under his skin, the restless, uncomfortable twist of his stomach making him regret the half-pound burger he'd consumed. Because, though he's officially been an NFL coach for seven months and has already seen his team through four games, tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow really matters.

Back in his room, he changes into sleep shorts and an old t-shirt before deciding to run through the game plan one last time. It's only as he's crawling into bed that he notices the blinking light on the hotel phone informing him of a voicemail. Figuring it's just someone in guest services wanting to check on his room satisfaction, Jensen picks up the receiver and hits the button, listens to the generic female voice informing him he has one new message before Jared's low drawl catches him by surprise.

"Hey, man. Just wanna wish you luck tomorrow. Not that you need it, but it can't hurt, right?" Jared's tone is warm and teasing and Jensen feels his stomach tighten all over again for a completely different reason. "I promise I'll do my best to make you look good, fuck up as little as possible. My first touchdown's for you, got it? I'll give you the ball and everything. Later, man."

The line goes quiet for a few seconds before the female voice returns to ask if he wants to delete the message, save it or repeat it. Jensen hesitates, finger hovering over the different options before finally hitting delete. He lets the receiver drop back into place and releases a slow breath, a pleasant buzz warm under his skin as he smiles to himself.

Picking up his cell phone, Jensen checks for any missed calls before sending off a text to Jared:

 _'Keep the ball and promise me a win.'_

He's burrowed under the covers with the television on low when his phone buzzes a few minutes later. Jared's response a simple, ' _You got it coach._

Monday morning sucks, but at least Jensen's expecting it. The coaches get called in two hours early for a game review and regrouping and, by the time the players start rolling in for the morning team meeting, Jensen's on his third cup of coffee and finally beginning to feel halfway human.

Kripke is just as calm in his talk with the team as he'd been during the press conference, but there's a slight edge to his tone this time. Without cameras and microphones around, he's more blunt, refusing to make up excuses or gloss over the fact that they really haven't stepped out with their best foot forward. First game or not, it's put up or shut up and they all know it. The Giants are a good team, but they're not any better than the Cowboys. The Cowboys failed to prove that.

The routine kicks into gear following Kripke's little speech, the loss to the Giants not so much forgotten as reserved for the rear view mirror. It's time to look ahead to next week, to the Baltimore Ravens. Part of the coaches meeting had been spent reviewing a few clips of Ravens game film where they'd quickly noticed a weakness in the run defense, something the Cowboys have every intention of using to their advantage. It means slightly less physical pressure on Jared and slightly more on Abel and the lead blockers. A few tweaks in the backfield and the hope that the Ravens, who are doubtlessly as aware of their weakness, don't suddenly improve.

All in all, it's a good few days of practice, the players alert and attentive, clearly eager to make up for their first loss.

When Matt calls on Wednesday, Jensen's somehow not surprised and he answers with a smile, quickly turning down the volume of the television with his free hand.

"So. I watched the game on Sunday," Matt tells him after they've exchanged the requisite pleasantries.

Jensen smirks. "Was someone holding a gun to your head?"

"I got stuck in a bar, actually. Couldn't be avoided."

"Ah," Jensen says, nodding his understanding. "So did they flood the streets when we lost?"

"Nearly. Think they were more excited about that than winning their own game."

"Sounds about right."

"Guess you would know, right? You do any of that when you were out here?"

"No way, man," Jensen says with a low laugh. "I was raised a Cowboys fan. Had to keep it in check while I was on the Redskins' payroll, but it never went away."

"I was up in New York then. You got any idea how much attention you get when you tell someone you know an NFL quarterback?"

"Oh yeah?" Jensen replies with a grin. "You catch any games?"

"I, uh. I kept aware of you."

Shifting on the couch, Jensen's grin widens. "You were practically a stalker."

"Stalker-in-training, maybe," Matt says. "I'm much closer to the real thing now."

"Should I be worried?"

"I'm hanging outside your window, actually. Nice shoes."

Jensen glances down at his bare feet and gives a snort of a laugh. "Think you got the wrong house."

"Do I? Shit. I was about to ask when you dyed your hair and grew breasts." Jensen laughs again, a sharp sound he doesn't even bother to muffle before Matt continues. "I'm actually calling for a reason, I swear. Stop distracting me."

"Mmm?" Jensen says, a quiet prompt as he gets his laughter under control. "With my non-breasts?"

"Yes. Stop waving those things around."

"I will when you stop staring at them."

"I took a look at your schedule," Matt says, amusement still clear as he changes the subject. "Game schedule, I mean."

"You shouldn't be telling me this. You seriously suck at stalking."

"You're playing in Baltimore this weekend."

"Ravens, yeah," Jensen says with another soft laugh, waiting for Matt to get to the point. "It's a late one."

"The stadium's about an hour or so from where I live. What would you say to me showing up?"

The second it's out, Jensen knows he should've seen it coming. But it's still enough of a surprise to make him fall silent, laughter dead in his throat before he coughs it free again. "You... what? You want to come to the game?"

"Yeah, if that's cool. Maybe hang out awhile after, get a few drinks."

Jensen falters for a second, trying to bend his mind around how normal Matt makes it sound. He closes his eyes and pulls in a slow breath, all too aware of the stretch of silence on the line before Matt's voice cuts in again, quieter.

"Jensen? Hey, it was just a thought. I know you'll be busy actually doing your job so if it's not a good idea I don't--"

"No, it's fine," Jensen says, cutting him off. "It's good. Great idea."

"You're sure?"

He isn't. Not at all, but he nods anyway, eyes clenched tight as he rubs at his temple. "I'm sure."

"Good 'cause I already got myself a ticket," Matt admits, sounding mildly sheepish and Jensen can't help but laugh, tension draining away.

"I could've gotten you one."

"As your stalker, I'm afraid I'd have to decline. Improper etiquette."

"Right, of course."

"Could get my license revoked for that, you know. It's bad enough I'm actually having a conversation with you and not just breathing heavy."

"Well, hey, go for it," Jensen says, sinking back into the comfort of easy banter. "I'm not gonna stop you."

"Too late now. The mood's ruined."

"Maybe next time?"

"Definitely next time," Matt says and there's something in his tone that gives Jensen the impression he's only half joking. His hand clenches against his thigh, dick stirring faintly before Matt says, "So anyway. I should go, I've got an early meeting tomorrow, but, uh... I guess I'll see you Sunday night."

"Yeah," Jensen says, ignoring the flare of renewed apprehension. "Yeah, Sunday. Absolutely."

"Great."

"Yeah."

"Goodnight, Jensen," Matt says, quieter. Jensen swallows his own reply and waits for the line to go dead.

:::

The rest of Jensen's week is spent either out on the field, in the weight room or in meetings and he all but forgets about his plans to meet up with Matt until they're boarding the plane on Saturday afternoon.

"Hey, you doin' anything after the game tomorrow?" Jared asks as he stretches out in the seat next to Jensen's.

Jensen has his head ducked, busy pulling his notepad from his bag. His only reply comes in the form of a grunt.

"Chad's gonna be there. Figured we could all go out for drinks or something once he finishes up."

Sitting up again, Jensen rests the pad on his lap. "Almost forgot about Chad," he confesses, lips curved in a faint smirk. "How the hell did he ever land that gig?"

"Hey, he's pretty good," Jared says with a laugh and Jensen kind of hates the fact that he can't really argue. "He's like the next Terry Bradshaw or something. Kinda dumb and goofy, but totally endearing. And he actually knows what he's talking about sometimes."

"Sometimes."

"So are you in?"

Powering up his notepad, Jensen shakes his head. "Got plans."

"Oh," Jared says and when Jensen glances over at him, he's surprised by the flash of disappointment coloring Jared's face. It's gone half a second later, Jared's lips pulling into a quick, easy smile. "Yeah, you probably got friends out in that area, huh? Kane still living there?"

Jensen starts arranging the notes on his pad. "Chris moved back to Oklahoma about eight years ago. Think he's got a bar and a band now."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Huh."

"What?" Jensen says, frowning slightly. Jared's never seemed to like Chris much.

"Nothing," Jared replies quickly. "Just... seems fitting is all."

Jensen has no idea how to read that, so he only shrugs, his focus once again on the pad on his lap, fingers moving over the smooth surface.

He can feel Jared watching and tries to ignore the prickle under his skin, the anxious feeling that Jared's about to ask who Jensen _is_ meeting up with. Ridiculous as it might be, that's a conversation Jensen really isn't eager to have. Especially not on a plane with forty-four other players and a couple dozen coaches and trainers within earshot.

Luckily, Jared seems content to let the conversation drop, his hand coming into Jensen's view to poke at his notepad. "You got any games on that thing?"

Jensen's lips twitch into a half grin and he looks over. "Got Scrabble."

"How 'bout chess?"

"I'm better at Scrabble."

"I'm better at chess."

Smiling despite himself, Jensen lets out a breath and swipes his finger over the pad. "Fine," he says, clicking on the icon to bring up the chess board. "One game."

Jared shifts in his seat, one long leg curling under the other as he reaches over to help Jensen settle the pad between them. "I'm so gonna kick your ass."

Jared does indeed kick Jensen's ass. Jensen can't really bring himself to care.

:::

Jensen tugs off his headset at the end of the first half and rubs a hand over his face. Down on the field, both teams are hurrying to the locker room while the stadium workers rush out to set up for the halftime show. Jensen has twelve minutes to take a piss, grab some food, and prepare for the second half.

His phone buzzes on his way to the john and he glances down to find a text from Matt: _'I keep looking. Where the hell are you?'_

Smirking, Jensen pockets his phone and slips into the bathroom to take care of his business. After, he steps into a side hallway and pulls his phone out, waits until he hears Matt's _Hello?_ nearly buried beneath the static of surrounding crowd noise before saying, "I'm up in the booth."

"You're humping the boob? What?"

Laughing, Jensen pitches his voice a little louder and speaks slower. "In. the. booth."

There's a pause then, no sound but the continuous shouts and screams of the crowd and the pump and swell of halftime show music. Then, "What's the booth? I thought you were on the sidelines!"

"Not for games," Jensen says, feeling only a little guilty for not better preparing Matt for this whole thing. It'd been Matt's idea, after all. "Look, I'll call you later, okay?"

"You'll what? I can't hear you!"

"After the game," Jensen says, louder and more clear. "I'll call you."

"Oh. Okay, yeah." Just as Jensen's about to hang up, he hears an added, "Good luck!"

Smiling, Jensen pockets his phone and turns the corner to head back to the booth. Andrew is lingering outside the door, lips twisted in a sneer. "You talkin' to your girl, Ackles?" he says, lifting one limp wrist to his side and cocking a hip. "Gonna meet up after for some make-up tips?"

The display is so outrageously juvenile that Jensen barely feels even a twinge of real offense. Just rolls his eyes and mutters, "Y'know, jealousy is a really ugly look on you," as he steps back into the booth.

Charles is fiddling with the satellite feed as Jensen drops into the chair next to him and instinctively reaches for his headset. There's a fresh cup of Starbucks right beside it and he grins a little as he nudges Charles's shoulder.

"You're my favorite," he says against the lip of the cup. "Find anything good?"

Charles gives a distracted grunt, flipping another channel before finally resting back with a sigh. "Well, can't say it's _good_ , but Murray's interviewing Garrett right now," he says, nodding at the screen. "'Gotta stop the turnovers blah blah blah, put pressure on the defense, blah blah blah, step it up in the red zone.'"

"That's some rigorous reporting right there."

"It's more fun when he's being inappropriate," Charles replies, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "This serious reporter shit gives me the creeps."

"Still only halftime," Jensen points out, scooting his chair in closer and starting to arrange his notes. "I'm sure we'll get the 'that's what she said' jokes before the end of the game."

Charles sighs. "We can only hope."

It's essentially a moot point anyway seeing as they don't pay much attention to the national broadcast while in the midst of a game, but it's the thought that counts. A world in which Chad Michael Murray can stand shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Al Michaels and Rich Eisen is pretty terrifying as far as Jensen's concerned. He'll admit Chad is good at what he does. Far better, in fact, than Jensen ever would have suspected while playing with the guy. But it's still unnerving to watch him carry on intelligent, thoughtful discussions with football legends, past and present. Jensen's far more comfortable with the way Chad can't ever seem to stop from snickering whenever he or anyone else uses any form of the word 'penetrate' on-air.

"Alright, here we go," Jim grumbles from the other end of the booth as the swell of crowd noise trumpets the return of both teams to the field.

Jensen adjusts his headset and hunches forward. The Cowboys are only up 10-6 despite recovering two turnovers and it's the Ravens' turn to receive.

Just as they'd feared, the Ravens first drive results in a touchdown, bringing the score to 10-13 and Jensen huffs into his mouthpiece as he watches Jared slip his helmet on.

"I know you're not worrying," he says. "Got more than enough time here. You ready for this? I'm ready for this."

Down on the field, Jared gives no indication that he's listening. He's focused on the ball placement as the special teams unit filters to the sidelines before wiping his hands dry on his towel and jogging out.

Jensen flips through his notes, brow furrowed as Kripke speaks in his ear, tossing out play suggestions before Jensen says, "Let's do Triple Impala Black Sixty-seven Devil."

There's a half a second's pause and then Kripke's voice filters through again. "With the option," he says and Jensen relays it to Jared, altering slightly per Kripke's order.

Again, Jared makes no indication that he's heard and Jensen can't make out his voice at the line, but the formation fits the play and the snap goes off without a hitch. Jared drops back, pumps a fake to the left and then hands the ball off to Demaryius on the reverse who gets them an easy first down before being dragged to the ground.

Four minutes later and they're on the 6-yard line. Jared completes a short pass to Felix, who runs it in for a touchdown.

"There we go, _there_ we go!" Charles shouts, pumping one fist in the air as the referee makes it official.

The Ravens fumble on their next possession, which results in a Cowboys field goal, and they turn the ball over another two times in the final quarter and the Cowboys earn their first win of the season with a final score of 37-20.

"Good game, good game," Kripke mutters as the players and media rush the field. "Locker room in ten, everyone."

:::

Forty minutes after the game's officially ended, Jensen finally gets a chance to call Matt. He's still in the bowels of the stadium, a few players brushing past as they exit the locker room, fresh from their showers and dressed in street clothes as they head for the bus. Their voices bounce off the cement walls, ringing loud as Jensen shoulders his bag and heads up the ramp.

"Hey, I'm outside," Matt tells him, not a trace of irritation in his voice. "Is there a back entrance or something?"

"Just tell me where you are and I'll find you."

Matt does and, after only a little bit of confusion due to the fact that it's nearly midnight and every single gate looks the same, Jensen finds him. The parking lot is still far from deserted, lines of cars backed up as they wait to exit, though Matt's not even in his car. Instead, he's leaning against it, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans and jacket opened to show the blue and white jersey just beneath, numbers unmistakable.

"No way," Jensen laughs as he slows to a stop a few feet away. "Where the hell'd you get that?"

Grinning, Matt glances down at himself and arches an eyebrow. "What, this? Eh. Just a little somethin' I had lyin' around."

"I think your stalker points just went up."

"And I didn't even have to mention the year I dressed up as you for Halloween."

Jensen blinks, a rough laugh pushing past his lips. "Oh, please tell me you're joking."

"I actually really wish I was," Matt says, his smile turning a little sheepish. "How much are you regretting accepting this invitation right now?"

Fighting a smirk, Jensen arches an eyebrow and steps closer, reaches out to lightly tug at the jersey and says, "Well, it doesn't appear to be made out of human skin so I'll take that as a good sign."

Matt's smile is small, but warm and his voice drops slightly when he says, "If the car smells like chloroform, I promise it's nothing to worry about."

Snorting a laugh, Jensen gives him a shove and then heads around to the other side of the car. "Think I'm willing to take my chances."

They end up in a dive bar a few miles away. It's about the best they can find for that time of night, but Jensen really doesn't care. He's seen worse. Halfway through their third round of drinks, Jensen gets a text from Jared telling him that Chad apparently says 'hi' and feels an inexplicable pang of guilt. If Matt notices anything off, he doesn't mention it and Jensen easily slips back into the conversation, ordering himself another drink.

It's just after two in the morning when Matt says, "Hey, so. I'd invite you back to my place, but it's a good hour away, so..."

His voice is low and hesitant and Jensen catches on a second later, barely refraining from cringing. Because he knows what Matt's going for here, knows it's been on his mind since the second he got the ticket. And Jensen can't say he hasn't been thinking about it, too.

But there is no way in hell Jensen's bringing Matt back to the hotel.

"Yeah, uhm. Our flight leaves pretty early tomorrow, actually, so I should probably call it a night here soon."

It's not a lie. The flight back to Dallas is scheduled for 11:00, which means Jensen has to be up and ready for the bus to the airport by 8:00. He's already dreading peeling himself out of bed.

"Oh," Matt says, clearly unable to hide his disappointment before pasting on a quick smile. "Right, of course. Of course."

"Sorry, I should've--"

"No, it's cool," Matt insists. His smile looks a little more genuine then, gaze earnest as he reaches across the table to curl his hand over Jensen's wrist. It's a nice weight, weirdly comforting, and Jensen surprises himself by not immediately pulling away. Though the fact that the bar is almost entirely empty probably helps. Not to mention the four beers he's put away. Matt's thumb brushes the side of his wrist as he adds, "Can you blame me for getting my hopes up, though?"

He's smiling as he says it, a secret little grin that makes Jensen instantly relax even as his face flushes hot. Giving his own slow grin, Jensen replies, "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to take you back and fuck you 'til dawn," carefully keeping his voice quiet.

The stunned, wide-eyed look Matt gives him in response is totally worth it.

Jensen tips his beer bottle to his lips and takes another sip, grinning smugly around the rim as Matt shifts in his seat, eyes narrowing. "Not cool."

"Rain check?"

"If I don't die of blue balls first."

"Oh, I assure you I won't let that happen," Jensen says.

Matt drops him off at the hotel a half an hour later, a bellhop there to greet him as the car pulls up into the drive.

"It was good seeing you again," Matt says, sliding the car into park. "I should be down in Texas next month. I could see about going to another game if that works for you."

Jensen's gaze catches on the curve of Matt's mouth, but he's all too aware of the bellhop hovering just outside the door and only nods. "Yeah, that would definitely work."

"Great. Just, uh. Keep in touch, yeah?"

Jensen grins and, taking a chance, curls his hand over Matt's, thumb sliding along the smooth skin of Matt's palm for a second. "I'll call you," he says.

:::

Jared looks even worse than Jensen the next morning. They barely exchange glances and mutual grunts before collapsing into their seats on the bus, only waking up long enough to file through security at the airport before resuming their positions on the plane, Jensen staying conscious just long enough to take out his contacts before passing out cold.

He wakes up sometime later with a crick in his neck and his face smashed against Jared's shoulder. Groaning, he pulls himself away and lifts a thumb to his mouth to make sure he hasn't slobbered all over his starting quarterback. Giving his surroundings a surreptitious look, he's relieved to find that his little foray into Jared's personal space seems to have gone largely unnoticed, the entire plane silent but for the low drone of steady snoring on all sides. Jensen shifts in his seat and leans his weight away from Jared, head resting against the curve of the window before letting his eyes slip shut again.

The next time he wakes up, it's due to the jolt and bounce of the plane landing, his breath catching fast as he blinks his eyes open.

"Mornin'," Jared grumbles beside him, hair mussed and cheeks pink as he wipes a hand along his face.

Jensen answers with a grunt, lips pulling into a grimace as he attempts to stretch his aching back while the plane taxis. Other voices slowly trickle in to fill the silence as guys awaken. Jensen blinks a few more times before pulling his glasses out of the seat pocket and sliding them on.

Up front, Kripke raises a hand to get everyone's attention and waits the few minutes for quiet to settle again before declaring, "Okay, it's about 1:30 right now. Plenty of time for you guys to go home, grab a couple more hours rest if you need it, eat and head to Valley Ranch. I want you all there by 6:00 sharp, we have a lot to go over."

He gets only a few muffled 'yes sirs' in reply, most everyone still struggling get their bearings as he adds, "Coaches, we'll meet at 5:00. Same room." Jensen barely refrains from groaning his disapproval.

"I quit," he mutters instead, low enough for only Jared to hear as he unclips his seat belt.

Jared gives a quiet huff of a laugh and Jensen glances over to see Jared watching him. Frowning, he looks down at his shirt, checking to see if he's managed to drool on himself in his sleep. "What?"

"Nothing," Jared says, too quick. "Just..." he lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely at the vicinity of Jensen's face. "Forgot about those."

"Huh?"

Jared gives a faint nod and Jensen's pretty sure he's not imagining the weirdly shy smile curving Jared's lips. "Those," he says, quieter. "Your glasses."

"Oh," Jensen says as Jared continues to just stare. It's a look Jensen recognizes all too well, one that even now manages to make his skin too tight and his dick take notice. "Sadly my eyesight hasn't improved any in the past decade."

"Figured you would've done Lasik or somethin' by now."

"Thought about it," Jensen says with a shrug. "Then I started having nightmares about being that point-zero-zero-one percent that ends up totally blind."

Jared's lips twitch into a grin, some of the heat in his gaze cooling. "Better safe than sorry," he says, one hand curling around the strap of his bag as he gets to his feet, slings it over his shoulder.

Jensen soon follows, sliding out into the aisle with his bag at his side and resolutely refuses to stare at the way Jared's bag pulls his t-shirt away from neck, revealing a stretch of tanned muscle just beneath.

:::

"Hey, little brother, how's it goin'?"

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Jensen frowns at the I.D. picture and rubs a hand over his face. It's late and he's tired and hungry and knows that tone of his brother's voice far too well. "No, I am not buying you a car," he grumps as he peers into his fridge, weighing the merits of leftover Chinese against a bottle of mustard. "What do you want?"

"Fuck you, I can buy my own car," Josh says, though he doesn't sound insulted in the slightest. "Though that new Mercedes line looks pretty sweet if you feel like changing your mind."

"Yeah, keep dreaming."

"Remember when you were, like, eight and got stuck in that tree at Papa's house and I managed to pull you down unscathed and you promised that one day you'd--"

"Josh," Jensen says, unable to keep the sharp irritation out of his voice as he grabs the bag of Chinese food and slams the refrigerator door shut. "What the hell do you want, seriously? I'm about to make dinner and pass the fuck out."

Josh is quiet for a second and Jensen can just picture the pissy look on his face. "Tickets," his brother finally manages, all hint of teasing gone from his tone. "For the game this weekend."

Jensen's frown deepens. "Wait, our game? The Cowboys?"

"No, the Monopoly tournament downtown," Josh snaps. "What the fuck do you think?"

"Why?"

"What do you mean _why_?"

"You've never cared about going to my games before," Jensen says, brow furrowed as he moves his phone from one ear to the other. "I played here for three years and you came to _one_. And left at halftime."

"You were losing."

"By a field goal!"

"Whatever, it's not really for me anyway," Josh says. "The boys wanna go. I know it's kinda short notice, but I promised them I'd at least ask."

Jensen blinks, lips twitching into a slow smile as he lets out a breath. "Really?"

"Yeah," Josh says with an exasperated sigh that Jensen can tell is entirely fake. "I keep tellin' 'em how much you guys suck and how they probably won't even get to see you, but Logan's pretty insistent."

"And Brodie?"

"Brodie's at the stage where he wants to do anything and everything his big brother does. So."

Grinning wider, Jensen nods to himself. He remembers that age well, back when he thought his brother was both the most annoying and most amazing person ever. It'd lasted maybe a year before he'd realized he was only half right.

"Alright," he says, a swell of warmth filling his chest as he rests back against the counter. "I'll look into it."

"See if you can get four, would you? Allie wants to go, too."

"Ah, family outing."

"I'm bringing my e-pad. Figure I can catch up on _Undercovers_."

Jensen huffs a laugh. "Asshole."

"Thanks, man. Tell me what you find out, will you? If it's bad news, I'll let you break it to them."

"See, that's the difference between you and me, Josh," Jensen says as he opens up his container of kung pao chicken. "I can face challenges head on and you? You're a coward."

"I just don't like the idea of breaking the hearts of small children."

"Yes, you're so noble."

His brother puts up only the token argument before Jensen hangs up on him, unable to fight the smile on his face as his dinner heats in the microwave.

:::

For the most part, the Bears don't pose a serious threat. They have a decent running game and the potential to manage a breakthrough in the air if their offensive line holds up, but so long as the Cowboys don't manage a total breakdown on defense, it should be an easy enough win.

"We cannot take this for granted," Kripke declares while wrapping up the meeting on Saturday. "If you think we can't possibly lose this game, you're wrong. If you think there's no possible way for us to embarrass ourselves, you're wrong. Don't underestimate this team and don't overestimate yourselves, you got me? Play like you did in Baltimore, play _better_ , and we got this easy. Anything less and we're looking at a losing record, which is something we absolutely cannot afford."

The players listen in silence and Jensen glances across the room, catches a few guys looking down at the desks in front of them, though most are facing forward. Focused. It's as good a sign as any.

Jared's in the second row, sprawled back in his chair and chewing on the end of a pen. He has the playbook at his fingertips, opened with some loose papers resting on top and he's tapping out a quick, soundless rhythm with his free hand. Beside him, Aldis is hunched forward, hoodie pulled up over his head, gaze intent on Kripke even as he reaches over to press his hand over Jared's, stilling Jared's restless fingers.

Hiding a smirk, Jensen returns his focus to the front of the room, chiming in with the rest of the team as Kripke finally pulls the meeting to a close.

He's at the hotel three hours later, same room as before, stretched out on the king bed and enjoying the silence while he still can. The next day's game plan unfolds behind his eyelids, all the weaknesses pushing to the forefront. The Bears secondary is young and inexperienced, but also quick. Quicker than anything they've faced so far this season. They could throw Jared for a loop if any receivers miss their routes, could easily dart in underneath if Jared doesn't aim his passes high and outside like they've practiced.

Jensen pulls in a slow breath and reminds himself this is nothing they haven't talked about already, nothing Jared isn't prepared for. They can handle this.

His phone rings. The hotel one again and Jensen cranes his neck back to stare at the little blinking red light before reaching for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Dude. Hey. I wasn't expecting you to answer. You're totally ruining my plan."

"Should I hang up and let you call back?"

"Yes."

Jensen hangs up, but keeps his eyes on the phone, a smile tugging at his lips when, two seconds later, it starts ringing again. He waits it out, two, three, four rings and then grabs the receiver.

"Why aren't you calling my cell?"

"Damnit, Jensen!"

"I could ignore that one just as easily."

"Yeah, but then you already know who's calling. Ruins the surprise."

"Hate to break it to you, man, but the cat's already outta the bag here. Save your breath."

"You suck."

A pleasantly warm feeling works through Jensen's veins as he pushes himself to sit up. "You hungry?"

"Dude," Jared replies with a huff of a laugh. "You forget who you're talking to?"

"I'm thinking room service and the Cartoon Network. You in?"

There's a pause then, followed by a low sigh as Jared says, "Jensen Ackles, you're my hero."

"Damn straight," Jensen says, grinning bright as he flips on the TV. "Get your ass over here, I'm starving."

They end up sprawled out across Jensen's bed, three empty plates on the floor and a half-demolished serving of chili cheese fries between them as they watch yet another episode of _Doug_.

Jensen's resting against the headboard, legs stretched out and Jared's on his stomach, eyes focused on the television. There are a handful of fries in Jared's mouth when he says, "Hey, you busy after the game tomorrow?"

"Mmm," Jensen responds, content from food and just the right amount of beer. "Might be."

Jared's head turns back to look at him. "Might be?"

"My brother's bringing the boys out to the game. Figure we'll do dinner or something after if they're up for it."

"Dude, really? You want me to see if I can get them a game ball?"

Jensen breathes a laugh, surprised for a second when he realizes Jared's completely serious. Then recovers fast enough to say, "Yeah, actually. If you can."

"No problem," Jared says before grabbing another cheese-covered fry. "I'll bring it out to 'em and everything."

"Don't you dare. I'm the cool uncle, stop trying to steal my awesome."

Jared flashes him a grin. "You're only the cool uncle because you know me."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Absolutely."

"They're gonna be crushed when they find out you're a jackass," Jensen says, scooting down to grab himself a few fries.

Jared rolls onto his side, hair flopping over his eyes. "Does that mean I get to meet them?"

"Is there any possible way for me to stop you?"

"Not if you want that game ball."

"I'm gonna talk to Jerry about renegotiating your contract," Jensen says, grabbing the plate of fries and taking it with him back to the headboard. "You're totally not worth the headache."

Jared only laughs, one heavy hand grabbing hold of Jensen's calf as he pushes himself up with a groan. "Good luck with that," he says before wandering off towards Jensen's bathroom.

Jensen can't stop grinning as he finishes off the fries. His leg feels warm.

:::

Four minutes into the first quarter, Jared throws an interception. Jensen drops forward, elbows on the ledge as he cradles his face in his hands and grumbles into his mouthpiece: "That's not the ball you're giving my nephews."

It's intended for Jared's ears only, but Jensen hasn't flipped over the switch on the headset and it goes out to Jeff and Kripke as well, which he only realizes when he hears a low, mildly amused rumble in his ear. "Wow, that sounds really inappropriate."

Jensen winces, cheeks flushing a little as he rubs his hand over his face and pulls in a breath. "You're a sick bastard, Morgan."

"I'm not the one gifting small children with balls," he says before his voice kicks up a notch to shout out to his players. "Fourteen! Eighty-three! Get your asses over here and clue me in on what the fuck just happened."

Luckily, the Bears only manage to score a field goal on Jared's turnover and the rest of the half is fairly uneventful, the score a sad 3-3 when it winds to a close.

There's a text waiting on Jensen's phone when he gets up at halftime. _'This better get better,'_ is all it says and even without the I.D. attached, Jensen would know exactly who it's from.

He rolls his eyes and types back, ' _I'll see what I can do,_ ' as he heads out use the restroom and grab himself a Coke.

His phone buzzes in his pocket on his way back and he waits to check it until he's settled in the booth, crowd noise filtering in through the open window as the show on the field finishes. It's not a text this time, but a picture: Logan and Brodie side-by-side in the stands, Brodie smiling so wide it looks almost painful while Logan, dressed in a #14 jersey, gives the camera a thumbs up.

"Cute kids," Charles says, eyebrow arched as he sets down a plate of nachos and drops into his chair.

"My nephews," Jensen explains, tipping his phone just enough for Charles to see the screen better. "Logan and Brodie. It's their first game."

Charles gives him another look, lips twisted in a near-grin, though there's something in his expression Jensen can't quite read. "How old?"

"Logan's gonna be fifteen in a month, Brodie's nine."

"And this is their first game?"

"My brother's an asshole," Jensen says with a shrug and Charles laughs, nodding his understanding. "Logan's actually really into hockey. Don't ask me how that happened."

"Jared paying him to wear that jersey?"

Jensen snorts a laugh and slips his phone back into his pocket. "Wouldn't be surprised," he says as he grabs his headset.

The second half proves far more exciting with Rogers intercepting a pass early in the third quarter and running it back fifty-eight yards for a touchdown. The Bears come back on their next drive to tie up the score yet again, but the Cowboys finally seem to come to life in the fourth, Jared throwing for not one, but two touchdowns before the team closes out with its second straight win of the season.

Jensen finds him in the locker room later, still damp from his shower, a towel hanging low on his hips as he reaches up to grab the ball stuffed in the top cubby hole of his locker.

"Heads up!"

Catching the ball a second before it slams into his face, Jensen tucks it under his arm and winds his way through the maze of players, coaches and discarded equipment. "Fuckin' took you long enough," he says and Jared's grin only brightens.

"Not a fan of the dramatic ending?" he asks, turning just enough to grab a pair of boxer shorts from his locker.

There is nothing sexually appealing about a football locker room as far as Jensen's concerned. That's never been an issue. Sure, he's found a few half-naked teammates attractive from time to time, but the loud, musty, overly-crowded environment of the locker room -- whether high school, college or professional -- has pretty much killed any illicit thoughts he may have had. The smell alone is enough to take care of that.

But with Jared standing right in front of him, newly showered and completely shameless as he drops his towel to the floor and slips into his shorts, Jensen can't deny it's having a little bit of an effect on him.

"I'm a fan of winning," he says, resolutely not letting his gaze wander at all as Jared dresses in front of him. "Preferably easily and with very little fanfare. Work on that, huh?"

Jared laughs then, an easy rumble as he ducks into his t-shirt, rumpling his hair. "You got it, Coach."

:::

Once Kripke's given his requisite post-game speech and Jared's finally fully dressed, they make their way out of the locker room. There's a crowd of fans gathered in the hall outside the elevators and Jared flashes them an easy smile and a wave as they walk past, which seems to only make the volume of the shouting escalate further.

"I always feel bad walkin' through without signing anything," Jared admits once they're outside.

Jensen's ears are still ringing.

"You can sign a billion things for my nephews to make up for it if it makes you feel better," he says and then nods over to where said nephews are standing just on the other side of the barricade, Jensen's brother and sister-in-law hovering just behind.

"Uncle Jensen!"

"Hey, buddy," Jensen says before exchanging a quick glance with the security officer, who immediately takes the hint and lets Jensen's family through. "What'd you think of the game?"

"You won!" Brodie says.

Laughing, Jensen nods and turns his attention to Logan. "How 'bout you? Better than hockey?"

Logan shrugs, but Jensen doesn't miss the smile on his face when he says, "It was okay. It wasn't as slow as it is on TV, but there weren't any fights."

"How the hell are you a Texan?" Jensen says before glancing over at Josh. "Your father has failed you."

Before Josh can defend himself, Jared steps in, nodding at Logan. "Dude, nice jersey."

Logan glances down at himself and then up at Jared, and Jensen can almost literally see the second he puts two and two together, his mouth falling open and eyes going wide. "You're Jared Padalecki."

"I am," Jared says, dimples flashing briefly in a nearly coy smile. "And you're Logan Ackles, am I right?"

"Yeah," Logan replies, still gaping. "Hi."

While Jensen's busy biting back a grin, Brodie lunges forward, arm outstretched. "I'm Brodie."

"Well, hi, Brodie," Jared says, taking the proffered hand in a shake. "I'm Jared."

"Whoa, your hand is _huge_!"

Laughing, Jared pulls his hand back and spreads his fingers wide as he turns it this way and that. "Yeah, got pretty lucky there," he says. "Makes throwing a lot easier."

"Really? Uncle Jensen's hand isn't that big and he throws really good."

"Not as good as Jared," Logan says, which makes Josh snort out a laugh.

Grinning, Jared glances back at Jensen, who does his best to look insulted. Says, "Hey, he taught me everything I know."

Jensen nods, lips pursed as he tries to fight a smile. "Everything."

"Well... almost everything anyway," Jared says, laughing as his voice softens. Jensen refuses to read too much into it, but does nothing to stop the swell of warmth in his gut when Jared turns his attention back to Brodie and adds, "All the important stuff. We played together for awhile, did you know that? He was, like, my mentor. All I had to do was sit back and watch."

"Really?" Brodie asks, nearly on tip-toe as he stares up at Jared. Logan stands just behind him, his expression far more skeptical, though he isn't arguing.

"Really," Jared assures him. "You should get him to show you some stuff sometime; he's pretty awesome."

"Alright, enough," Josh says, smirking as his hand drops his hand to the top of Brodie's head, tugging him back playfully. "Last thing my brother needs is a bigger ego."

Jensen grins. "I'm awesome," he says, waggling his eyebrows dramatically, playing it up completely. "Jared Padalecki thinks I'm awesome."

"Well, I'm older and wiser and know better."

"We're thinking of going out for dinner," Allie cuts in, ignoring her husband as she settles a hand over her oldest son's shoulder. "You're welcome to join us, of course. You too, Jared."

Arching an eyebrow, Jensen exchanges a glance with Jared. He's not surprised by the invitation, but he is surprised by the way Jared hesitates, like he's gauging whether or not Jensen actually wants him there. It feels off. Weirdly unsettling.

So Jensen just shrugs and pastes on a smile. "Sounds good. Jay?"

"Yeah," Jared says, and Jensen's pretty sure he isn't imagining the relief he sees there. "Yeah, that sounds great."

:::

The team gets a much-needed day off before practice resumes bright and early Tuesday morning. The coaches all arrive early to begin the preliminary planning.

"We should have no trouble winning this one," Kripke says at the coaches meaning, resting back comfortably in his chair and idly tapping his pen against the tabletop. Jensen takes another sip of coffee. " _Should_ being the operative word here. I want our approach to be similar to last week's: slower practice, emphasis on defense, maybe throw in a few more passing routes, but nothing too strenuous. We've got some confidence going into this one, but we gotta be careful our guys don't get cocky so let's talk up Atlanta's strengths as much as possible."

"I think it's a good time to work in Whitlow a little more," Jensen says.

Kripke seems to consider that for a moment before nodding. "Not a bad idea. Keep Padalecki fresh for Philly next week."

Beaver mentions Atlanta's dangerous kick returner and Kripke agrees to set up more time for the special teams before Whitfield brings up some weak spots in the receiving unit. The rest of the meeting is more of the same, every coach taking a couple minutes to throw in his opinion. Slowly, the game plan starts to form and the players file in an hour later to start practice for the day.

Wednesday is only slightly tougher, the special teams staying late as promised. Position meetings are in the afternoon and Jensen spends most of that time quizzing his players on the under-utilized routes and some of the few trick plays.

"I say we put me in on a fourth and long," Porter says, his smile as bright and contagious as ever. "Confuse the hell out of 'em."

"Sounds good to me," Jared agrees. "Maybe we could do that for the whole game. I'll take first and second downs, Whitlow can cover third and Porter will handle fourth."

"I'll be sure to pass that by Kripke," Jensen says with a faint smirk.

"He'll love it. It's goddamn revolutionary."

"Alright, let's focus," Jensen says, still smiling as he shakes his head and nods back down at the playbook. "Whitlow, give me the ideal conditions for a 40-Zeppelin Crossroad Lilith Twister."

:::

Jensen's on his way to DFW Sunday morning, when he gets a call from Danneel. He spends a good few seconds just staring at her face on his phone before finally answering.

"Holy shit, who died?"

There's a satisfying pause on the other end before Danneel snaps back with, "Oh come on, it hasn't been _that_ long."

"About a year."

"It has not. I called you on New Year's."

"Wrong. You drunk-dialed me on New Year's."

"It totally counts."

"I couldn't understand a fucking thing you said," Jensen argues, though he can't keep the smile out of his voice. "Except that you thought I would appreciate the size of your date's dick."

"Was I wrong?"

"You never sent a picture, therefore I figured you were lying."

"Oh, right," Danneel says, sounding mildly distracted for half a second. "Well. Your loss, I guess. Anyway, I'm on my way to Atlanta. I have a meeting with the network, but that shouldn't last more than a few hours. What do you say to dinner?"

"I say you're awfully forward, Ms. Harris."

"You should feel honored. Out of all the gorgeous men I could be spending my time with tonight, you're at the top of the list."

"Even though you know I won't put out?"

Danneel laughs, her voice dropping. "Oh, I think that depends on how many drinks we put in you, hmm?"

Smirking, Jensen takes his exit. "Figure out where you wanna go and I'll call you when we land," he tells her, still grinning. "If you pick some place vegan, I will kill you."

"Don't worry, I learned my lesson the last time," Danneel assures him. "Later, baby. Have a safe flight."

:::

Danneel chooses some place called Rathbun's and lets him know via text that their reservation is for 9:00, which gives him plenty of time to settle into his room and meet with the coaches before calling a cab.

"Ooh, hot date, huh?" Jared says with a smirk when Jensen explains why he has to decline Jared's invitation to join him and Aldis for dinner at the hotel restaurant.

"You know you're jealous."

"Who wouldn't be? But if you keep turnin' me down all the time, I'm gonna start thinkin' you don't like me anymore."

Jensen grins. "Aww, Jay. I never knew you cared." That doesn't get him the smile he's expecting, Jared's brow furrowing just a little before Jensen reaches out to nudge his arm. "We'll do tomorrow, alright? After the game, win or lose. You still owe me for Denver."

Jared looks hesitant for a second or two, a crease still clear between his eyebrows before he finally seems to relax. "Yeah, okay," he says, offering a small smile.

:::

"I fucking hate you."

Jensen grins behind his menu before lowering it to see Danneel standing in front of him, dressed in dark slacks and a fitted jacket, the front of which is opened to show the low-cut blue blouse beneath.

"God, seriously," she continues, huffing a breath as she drops down into the opposite chair and slings her purse over the back. "Look at you! I swear, you get hotter every time I see you. It's unnatural. And totally infuriating."

Still grinning, Jensen says, "You're late."

"I know, I'm sorry," Danneel replies, wincing slightly as she takes a sip of water and then reaches for the menu. "The meeting went way longer than expected. All this interactive 3D bullshit is such a pain the ass. Like I care how many different views people have of my tits while I'm on air. Lenny told me the food at this place is incredible. Do you know what you're getting?"

"Double bone pork chop, I think."

Danneel glances up, one artfully sculpted eyebrow raised. "You do love your meat, don't you?"

"You have no idea," Jensen says with a slow grin.

"Oh, I think I do. The salt and pepper shrimp sounds good, doesn't it? Think I might get that."

Their waiter arrives minutes later to take their order and, as he's leaving, Danneel scoots her chair closer and folds her hands on the table, head cocked to one side.

"So," she says and Jensen feels the toe of her shoe bump his shin under the table. "Fill me in. What's it like being the first out and proud coach in the NFL?"

"Is this dinner or an interview?"

Danneel rolls her eyes. "Don't be insulting. It's been awhile, we have a lot to catch up on."

Jensen smirks and gives a nod as he rests back in his chair and tells her all about the switch from college to pro, the different people he's had to work with, both good and bad. The players. Danneel listens as she sips at her water, interrupting only a couple times with questions. It's easy and casual and he finds himself telling her a few things he hasn't mentioned to anyone else. Not that he's particularly surprised; it is Danneel's job to get people talking, after all. And she's damn good at it.

"Doug Farish is a penis," she says after Jensen tells her about a few of the more condescending remarks he's made over the past several months. "I'm disappointed in Andrew, though. I always thought he was pretty decent."

"He is," Jensen says with a shrug. "I mean, he's a good guy, just... old-fashioned, I guess."

"He's a bigot."

Jensen's lips twist into a half-smile.

"There's a lot of them in this league, Jensen. Still. And they're not good people. I don't care if they go to church every week and help little old ladies cross the street in their spare time, that doesn't make them any less hateful. Trust me, okay? As someone who's had to deal with this Good Ol' Boys bullshit her entire career, I can tell you I have a lot of experience with bigots. And chauvinists. And creeps."

"Hey, you've fared pretty well."

"Damn right," Danneel says, tapping her pristine nails against her water glass. "I'm a fierce bitch, baby. Don't fuck with me."

Their meals arrive minutes later and Jensen's busy digging into his cut of meat when Danneel waves a fork at him. "Alright, time for the hardball questions," she says around her bite of salad, one hand cupped in front of her mouth to hide the fact that she's speaking with her mouth full. "How's the love life? And no lying, you know I can tell when you try to pull that shit."

Jensen carefully finishes his bite and then swallows it down with a sip of wine, lips twisting slightly as he lets out a huff of a laugh. "It's, uh. It's good, I guess."

"Aha," Danneel replies, grinning slow. "So there's a someone."

"Maybe," Jensen says. "Sort of."

Danneel eyes him, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm not-- stop looking at me like that. It's complicated."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean it."

"Hmm," Danneel says, her lips pursing and eyes narrowing. "Please tell me you aren't doing something supremely stupid."

Confused, Jensen frowns. "Like what?"

"Like fucking a player."

Jensen darts a glance to the side instinctively, suddenly terrified of being overheard, his lips tugging into a scowl as he hunches closer. "I'm not," he says, voice hushed, but firm. The memory of Jared half-naked in the locker room passes through his mind and he shoves it aside, gaze unwavering until Danneel finally seems to relax a little.

"Okay," she says, reaching for her wine glass, though she still doesn't look entirely convinced. "Okay, just... I know you have in the past, so."

"That was a long time ago. When _I_ was a player."

"And you've still never given me a name."

"And I never will."

Sighing, Danneel shoves another bite of salad into her mouth and chews for about twenty seconds before eying him yet again. "Who then?" she says, words muffled slightly before she manages to swallow. "C'mon, you gotta give me _something_ here."

Jensen feels his face heat and he shakes his head, trying to brush it aside. Danneel is clearly not having it.

"You know how long it's been since I got laid? Five months, Jensen. _Five months_. Let me live vicariously through you for a little bit, huh?"

"His name's Matt," Jensen says as he cuts off a piece of meat. "He lives in D.C."

Danneel practically lights up at just that tiny bit of information. "Ooh, long-distance relationship," she says, grinning around the rim of her wine glass. "So is he hot? Do you have a picture?"

Feigning annoyance, Jensen sighs and leans back to pull his phone out of his pocket, flipping through the various pictures in his album before finding an adequate one to show her.

"Oh, mama _like_ ," Danneel says, scrutinizing the photo closely. "Does he look this good naked?"

"Better."

" _Mmf_ ," Danneel grunts, shaking her head as she hands his phone back and takes a bite out of her shrimp. "So jealous right now, you have no idea. How'd you meet him anyway?"

Jensen lets out a quick laugh at that and picks at his cut of meat after pocketing his phone. "He's actually... we went to high school together. I dated his sister for awhile."

"Wow, really? That's kinda..." her voice trails off, eyes widening as she fits the pieces together. Jensen's told Danneel about Matt before, though he can't remember if he ever specified a name. But she knows the basics and he fidgets under her gaze, offering a sheepish sort of smile. "Wait. No way. _No way_. It's _him_?"

"He was visiting Dallas a couple months ago, called me up and we got together for drinks. We've kept in touch."

"This is like some kind of ridiculous fairy tale romance, you know that, right? People write stories about shit like this."

"I'm not sure we're even dating. We haven't really talked about it."

"Do you want to?"

"Talk to him?"

" _Date_ him," Danneel says, lips twisting into a grin of fond amusement. "Or do you just want a cross-country booty call?"

Jensen grimaces slightly and reaches for his wine. "We're getting dangerously close to girl talk territory here," he tells her, lifting the glass to his lips. "I'm gonna need way more booze for this."

"You're such a loser."

"Says the woman who, by her own admission, hasn't gotten laid in five months."

"Just for that, you're totally paying for dinner."

He doesn't argue.

Danneel doesn't let the topic rest until twenty minutes later when Jensen finally manages to get her talking about herself and her dog, Icarus, who is apparently some kind of god among cockapoos. Though he has to admit the pictures she shows him are pretty adorable. For an oversized rat on a leash.

It's nearing 11:00 by the time they finally decide to call it a night. They're conveniently staying in the same hotel so they share a cab, most of the ride spent in comfortable silence until Danneel reaches over to wrap her hand loosely around Jensen's wrist.

"It's really good seeing you again," she says, voice quiet and completely sincere.

Jensen twists his arm a little to take her hand in his and squeezes gently. "You, too."

"I've heard people talking about you," she continues and Jensen grimaces, automatically expecting the worst. But Danneel's smile only softens as she brushes his knuckle with the pad of her thumb. "Can't blame people, Jensen, it's still kind of a hot topic. And they're not... well, some people are and always will be raging assholes, but I've heard so many good things already. Great things."

He's not entirely sure what he's supposed to say in response, so he keeps quiet. The cab driver has NPR on low and Jensen focuses briefly on the white noise as Danneel brings his hand up to her lips, kisses his fingers.

"I'm proud of you," she tells him and then squeezes his fingers before dropping his hand down to her lap. Her smile turns a little more playful. "Still kind of a loser, but, you know. I'm willing to overlook it."

Jensen huffs a laugh and keeps his hand tightly wrapped around hers. "Well, I'm pretty proud of you, too. Guess we've got a good arrangement," he says. And he means it completely.


	6. Chapter 6

They beat the Falcons 35-7, thanks in no small part to Jared. Despite taking a nasty hit in the last ten seconds of the first half, he'd come on strong in the second, wracking up three touchdowns in the third quarter alone.

It hadn't come without a price, the largest being an injury to George Freemont, the team's star safety. X-rays taken during the half had come up negative, but it's still too early to tell what the recovery could be and there's no doubt the secondary is weaker without him.

It's after midnight by the time Jared's done talking to the media, so when Jared suggest they do drinks back at the hotel instead of a bar, Jensen readily agrees.

A half hour later, when Jared's kicking off his shoes in Jensen's hotel room and making a beeline for the mini-bar, he wonders if maybe it's not the best idea.

"You realize the team foots the bill if we drink anything in there," Jensen says as he drops his bag to the floor.

"Yep," Jared replies, crouching to look through the tiny refrigerator. "Looks like we've got some Skyy, Absolut, Jack, Bacardi, Grey Goose, and Bailey's in here. Lots of soda. Red Bull. Couple bottles of wine. Corona." Jared immediately grabs that one before continuing his perusal. "Some wine coolers, orange juice, water, a couple Heineken. Ooh, Reese's!"

Jensen huffs an unsurprised laugh as Jared grabs the box of candy and immediately rips into it, popping a few pieces into his mouth as he looks back at Jensen. "So what's your poison?"

"I'll take a Heineken," Jensen decides as he drops down onto the edge of his bed and pulls off his shoes.

Minutes later, they're both leaning back against the headboard, Jared still finishing his box of candy as he looks through the room service menu while Jensen turns the TV to ESPN to catch up on game highlights from the rest of the league.

Jared calls in their order and then glances up at the television when he hears his name, lips twisted into a grin.

"Hey, turn it up," he says, shifting to lie down on his stomach, feet in the air. "They're about to talk about how awesome I am."

There's a sliver of skin showing down near Jared's right hip where his shirt rides up and Jensen lets himself stare for a second before tipping his bottle to his lips. " _Or_ they're about to talk about how much Atlanta sucks."

"Dude, I scored four touchdowns today. That's pretty fucking awesome."

"I've seen better."

Jared responds by glaring over his shoulder as he shoves his right knee into Jensen's thigh. Laughing, Jensen shifts and pushes Jared's knee away with his foot, keeping it rested there until he feels the muscles in Jared's leg relax.

"You play like you did today next week and I'll go on SportsCenter myself to sing your praises."

Still looking over his shoulder, Jared frowns a little. "You say that like you don't think I can do it."

"The Eagles are good, Jay. I'm just trying to give you some added incentive."

"Dude, I can think of some way better incentives," Jared says and there's just enough in Jared's tone to make Jensen unsure whether or not it's intended as innuendo.

"Did they say how long before our food'll get here? I'm starving."

"Nope," Jared replies and nods over at the mini-fridge. "There's a Snickers in there if you want it."

Jensen considers it for about half a second before shaking his head and taking another sip of his beer instead.

They're silent for the next several minutes, both focused on the television. Jensen makes mental notes on a few of the clips shown, highlights he'll need to revisit before playing teams like the Packers and the Steelers, defensive schemes that will require closer looks.

Jensen's on his second beer when room service finally arrives and Jared beats him to the door, smiling at the guy who wheels their food into the room while digging into his wallet for tip money.

"Let's watch a movie or something," Jared says once the bellboy's left.

Heading over to the mini-bar, Jensen nods towards the remote on the nightstand. "Go for it," he says, pulling out a bottle of red wine. He finds a corkscrew in a drawer and goes to work opening the bottle as Jared flips through the TV channels, Jensen hearing tiny snatches of commercials and news clips and sitcom re-runs before Jared finally appears to settle on something.

" _Union Undone_?"

"Works for me," Jensen says and then tips his head back to sip some wine straight from the bottle.

Behind him, Jared laughs. "Classy."

They both settle against the headboard again, plates in their laps and the bottle of wine between them. Jared occasionally reaches over to steal some of Jensen's fries. It's comfortable and easy. And, even with a good amount of food in his stomach, the mix of two beers and half a bottle of wine have Jensen feeling pretty pleasantly buzzed.

When Jared finishes off the wine awhile later, his head tipped back and neck exposed, Jensen tries to stop himself from staring. And fails.

Jared catches him, a grin curving his lips as he swallows and sets the bottle aside. But Jensen quickly looks away, focuses instead on Liam Neeson's frown on the television.

"Smooth," Jared says, voice low with amusement.

He keeps completely quiet, pretending to be absorbed in the movie, even while hyper-aware of the way Jared's shoulder knocks against his.

There's another unsettling stretch of silence before Jared says, "I missed this." Jensen has no idea how to respond so he doesn't. Just reminds himself to keep breathing. "Y'know, when Morgan said you were thinkin' 'bout comin' back, I didn't believe him. Figured this was probably the last place you'd wanna be so long as I was around."

Frowning, Jensen finally glances away from the TV, his gaze settling just south of Jared's right knee.

"I really fucked up, man. I know that. Had it so good for so long and then it just... it's like I reached this point, you know? Where I could only have one really good thing and it was football and I lost everything else."

Jensen drags his eyes up to Jared's face, but Jared keeps his head lowered, staring at his own fidgeting fingers.

"Are you really doing this?" Jensen says, tone halfway between concerned and irritated. "You're rich, famous and extremely talented. You've been to two Super Bowls and six Pro Bowls, won I don't know how many awards. You don't get to bitch about how much your life sucks."

Jared laughs then, just a quick, humorless puff of air as he shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm an asshole. I know."

"You're really not," Jensen says. "You're just..." he trails off, Jared's eyes on him as he finally lets out a breath. "Your life's not perfect, Jared. But it's not as awful as you seem to think it is."

"I want a family," Jared says and something in his tone makes Jensen's chest tighten and stomach plummet. Part of it's in genuine sympathy and part of it... part of it's something Jensen absolutely refuses to acknowledge. "That's what I've always pictured, you know? A big house and gorgeous wife and 2.5 kids or whatever. A couple dogs and a white picket fence and all that bullshit. So I got the dogs and I got the house and, for a little while, I even had the wife, but it wasn't..."

"This about your ticking biological clock?" Jensen cuts in, words choked in his attempt at humor. He pushes himself off the bed and heads for the mini-fridge.

"No, that's not-- well. Maybe," Jared says. Jensen bypasses the tiny bottle of Jack and settles on the Michelob as Jared continues. "I'm just... I don't know anymore, man. You bein' around again kinda fucks it all up."

Jensen turns back around and rests his hip against the counter, beer in hand as he arches an eyebrow. "'Scuse me?"

"I'm not gay," Jared says, like that in anyway explains anything. "You're still the only guy I've ever..."

"Fucked," Jensen fills in for him, voice colder. "It's okay to say the word, Jared. It won't make you any less straight."

"Wanted," Jared says, voice lower. Firm. "You're the only guy I've ever wanted, Jen. There's a difference."

Jensen grips his beer tighter, glass cold under his fingertips and eyes locked on Jared's. It feels like it should be profound somehow, like a confession Jared doesn't even know he's making. And Jensen has no idea how he's supposed to react, can do nothing but wait through the stretch of uncomfortable silence, heartbeat thudding against his ribcage before Jared finally lets out a strained laugh. "Whatever, I'm drunk. Nevermind."

Swallowing, Jensen gives a stilted nod. Says, "It's nearly 2:00."

Jared glances down at his watch and pulls in a slow breath. "Yeah."

"We have to catch the bus at 7:00."

"Right, I know." He sounds defeated, shoulders hunched as he pushes himself to his feet and walks over to grab his shoes.

Jensen watches him, ignoring the heavy weight low in his stomach.

"You still owe me for Denver," he says as Jared opens the door to let himself out. Jared pauses, glances over with his brows knit in clear confusion. Jensen holds up his bottle. "Team's paying. This doesn't count."

Jared blinks before huffing a quick laugh, his smile just a little strained. "Got it, Coach," he says, his gaze lingering on Jensen a tiny bit longer before he slips out, closing the door with a quiet click.

Jensen only finishes half of his beer before crawling into bed twenty minutes later.

:::

Despite the win over the Falcons, Kripke doesn't grant the team any kind of celebratory break. Their flight lands at DFW at 10:00 AM and the entire team is back at Valley Ranch by 2:00 that afternoon, the coaches arriving even earlier. With only four days to practice they can't afford to waste any time.

An elevated sense of urgency drives the week, the players more attentive in meetings, every last one taking diligent notes as Kripke outlines their opponent's strengths and weaknesses. It's only the fifth game of the season, but it's the second against a division rival and they lost their first one.

Jensen gets a call on his way home Friday night. It's from Mike so he lets it go to voicemail and enjoys the rest of his drive in blessed silence, stopping only to pick up dinner on the way.

He calls Mike back as he's stepping into his kitchen, dropping the paper sack of food to the counter before fishing a beer out of the fridge.

"So what do you think?" Mike says in greeting.

"About what? I haven't listened to your message yet."

"Fuck, I hate when people do that," Mike grumbles. "I just wasted a good minute and a half of my life figuring out the best, most concise way to convey very important news about your career and you can't even bother to fucking listen."

"And you're wasting even more of your precious time bitching at me."

"Stop using logic against me," Mike grumbles. "Alright, as much as I loathe repeating myself, here's the deal. _Details_ still wants an interview. Cover story, photo shoot, the whole shebang. I had them give me a list of possible interviewers and told them I'd let you take a look. Not sure my opinion counts for shit, but I think you should do this. It's more mainstream, higher circulation and totally out of your comfort zone, which I seriously think you need at this point."

"You my agent or my shrink?"

"Best of both worlds, baby," Mike says and Jensen has no trouble picturing his toothy smile. "Jack of all trades up in here."

Jensen sighs, scratches a finger against his jaw. "Dude, Morgan's been on my ass about this shit for months; you already know what I'm gonna say."

"And you know I'm gonna hound you until you give in."

"Or until I fire you."

"Whatever, you'll never fire me," Mike replies. "I'm the best there is and you know it. _And_ you know I'm right about this."

Frowning down at the floor, Jensen shakes his head, then takes a long pull from his beer. It's entirely possible he's building this whole thing up to be a bigger deal than necessary, but Jensen's never liked the media. Not even when they've been on his side. There are too many variables beyond his control, too many ways for things to get twisted and deliberately misconstrued.

And he really has other things to be worrying about right now.

"I'll think about it," he finally manages, setting his beer can down on the countertop.

Mike lets out an exasperated sigh in his ear. "How'd I know you were gonna say that? Look, I'm sending you this list, alright? Just look into the names when you have a chance, check up on their past employers, medical records, FBI file. Whatever. You might be surprised by what you find."

"Doubtful."

"You're such an ass, you know that?"

Jensen's food is cold by the time Mike hangs up, but Jensen can't bring himself to care. He's really not all that hungry anymore.

:::

"I can't believe this," Jensen says, horrified as Jared throws his third interception of the game, the Eagles linebacker catching the deflected pass in the end zone to kick the score up another seven points. "I can't _believe_ this. What the hell is going on?"

Down on the field, Jared trudges to the sidelines with the rest of the offense and yanks his helmet off, dark hair matted to his forehead.

It's only the second quarter, the score 17-7. It's a small miracle the Cowboys are aren't losing by a far greater margin, and it doesn't get any better on the next Cowboys drive when Jared manages to earn his _fourth_ interception of the afternoon.

Jensen hides his face in his hands.

The Philadelphia crowd is going apeshit, though they hush somewhat when the Eagles fail to capitalize on the turnover and the Cowboys get the ball back with just under one minute left in the half. It's no-huddle then, Jensen spouting out play options as Jared and the offense hurry to the scrimmage line. Jensen's heart is racing, stomach churning. He holds his breath as Jared drops back to pass, praying it won't yet again land into the open arms of an Eagles defenseman and only exhales when Chambers comes down with it and steps out of bounds to stop the clock.

It buys some time for the offense to catch their breath while Kripke shouts out the next play and Morgan sends in the first down unit.

"Jesus, don't fuck this up," Charles murmurs and Jensen rubs the heel of his hand against his temple, inwardly echoing the sentiment.

They gain another four yards on the next play, but their running back gets stuck inbounds and the clock is still ticking. Jensen can almost literally feel his blood pressure rising as the offense hurries to line up at scrimmage, Jared crouching to shout the call before falling back and shooting off a long pass to Aldis down the side. It's a twenty-nine yard gain, but there are only three seconds remaining in the half and the Cowboys aren't even in the red zone.

Even a successful field goal isn't enough to put them in the lead, but it's better than nothing and, at this point, it's better than trying for a long-shot touchdown and risking yet another turnover.

Kripke grumbles through the headset, clearly pissed about the entire predicament as the refs ready the field for the next play. Finally, he growls, "Field goal, let's go!"

It's a 47-yard kick, not a chip shot by any means, but Carter nails it, sending the game into halftime with a score of 17-10.

"Looks like someone forgot to eat his Wheaties this morning," Jim mutters as every guy in the booth tugs off his headset. Jensen rubs a tired hand over his face and wonders, not for the first time, what the hell is wrong with his starting QB. Jared's had his problems with ball control in the past, but nothing like this. If he keeps it up, they'll have no choice but to send in Whitlow and, decent a back-up as he is, Jensen's honestly not sure he could hold against this Eagles defense.

After taking a piss and grabbing himself another coffee, Jensen spends a few minutes pacing outside the booth. He has seven minutes to get calm, seven minutes to figure out how the hell to make his starting QB snap out of it and play to his ability. He has no doubt Morgan's talking to Jared in the locker room and Jensen can likely make a fairly good guess on what all is being said considering Jensen spent several years under Jeff's coaching once upon a time. But he still kind of hates that he's not there to do it himself.

By the start of the third quarter, Jensen's managed to calm down a little. He takes a sip of his coffee and goes over the notes as the special teams unit runs onto the field for the kickoff.

"You talk to Jared?" Jensen asks when he hears Jeff come on the line, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it all the same.

"He's pissed," Jeff tells him and Jensen nearly smirks. He'd be worried if Jared _wasn't_ totally pissed right now.

Luckily, the first Cowboys possession produces no major catastrophes and results in another successful field goal. However, the Eagles' kick returner manages to run a hundred-plus yards for a touchdown on the very next play and it only gets worse when, on the next Cowboys drive, Jared fumbles in the backfield. It's immediately recovered by the Eagles' outside linebacker and their offense marches sixty yards downfield before the Cowboys manage an interception, the ball again in their possession.

Not two minutes later, three yards from the goal line, Jared throws his fifth interception of the night.

Jensen collapses forward, both hands covering his face as he lets out an exasperated, twisted laugh. "This is fucking ridiculous," he says, not giving a shit that Jared can hear him.

"That ties a franchise record," Andrew informs them, voice dull. "Congratulations."

The defense manages to keep the Eagles from scoring and, on the Cowboys next possession, Jared gets the offense far enough downfield for Carter to get off an easy field goal, bringing the score up to 24-16 with nearly one full quarter to go. It's a testament to their defense that they're only behind by eight points, instead of eight touchdowns and they continue to hold strong through the next thirteen minutes. With less than one minute left in the game, the Cowboys get another chance to score.

Jared's quick but controlled on the field, shouting out the play calls. He drops back and the O-line holds, giving him plenty of time to find an open receiver. When Jared lets off a long pass, Jensen has to fight the impulse to close his eyes and only breathes again when Aldis catches it fifty yards down the field. He breaks a tackle on his turn and runs thirty more yards into the end zone.

"Holy shit," Jensen breathes, a fresh rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins as the scoreboard lights up to read 24-22. With just thirty seconds left in the game, they have no choice but to try for a two-point conversion in a desperate attempt to send the game into overtime.

"Ninety-nine Pentagon Red Weston Salvation," Jensen rattles off, glancing up in time to see Jared and the rest of the offense jogging back onto the field.

Both teams line up on the 2-yard line and Jensen gets to his feet, hands clasped behind his head as Jared makes the call and takes the snap. He drops back, three perfect steps, looks left and then hands off to Puryear, who is stopped just inches from the end zone.

" _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

The hometown Eagles crowd goes crazy.

"Onside kick," Kripke orders immediately, voice sharp and determined. "Let's go, _let's go!_ "

Jensen doesn't sit down, just keeps his arms crossed over his chest as the special teams take the field, lining up heavy on the right. At the blow of the official's whistle, Carter takes his steps, foot connecting with the ball to send it arcing end over end to the right. It looks picture-perfect, a player in blue and silver jumping up high to grab it out of the air, coming down hard at the 37-yard line and disappearing under a pile of grappling players.

"Did it make ten yards?" Charles says, voicing the question everyone's thinking. "God, please tell me it made ten yards."

Jensen leans forward to glance up at the Jumbotron, but they're not showing the replay, and Andrew flips the channel on their in-booth television to get the national broadcast.

"It made it," he declares and the entire room lets out a breath.

A minute later, the refs make it official, marking it Cowboys ball with twenty seconds left in the game.

Jensen hurriedly adjusts his headset and starts talking. "Alright, Jay, you got this. Keep it low and outside, man. Low and outside. Just get us into field goal range, that's all we're looking for."

Kripke cuts him off to relay the play call and Jared jogs to the scrimmage line again, crouching behind center as he shouts at his offense, somehow still the picture of controlled calm even while the Philadelphia crowd hollers and stomps, trying their hardest to drown out Jared's voice. It doesn't work, Jared managing to shoot off a four yard pass to Abel, followed by an eight yard pass to Chambers on the next play, putting them just barely into Eagles territory with two seconds left on the clock.

"Fifty-four yard field goal attempt or Hail Mary pass to the end zone?" Jim mutters and Jensen glances over to see him rubbing a hand over his beard. Carter's good, no doubt about it, but fifty-four yards is still fifty-four fuckin' yards.

A part of Jensen wants to say Hail Mary, just to give Jared the opportunity to redeem himself in this embarrassment of a game. But even on Jared's best day that's a risky move and this is far from Jared's best day.

"Field goal," Kripke decides before Jensen can say a word and the kicking unit runs out onto the field.

Jensen chances a glance out into the crowd. There's green everywhere, only a splash or two of blue and silver, and absolutely everyone is on their feet, eyes locked on Carter. Jensen's teeth sink into the skin of his knuckle as the ball is let loose, caught and placed perfectly by Porter not even half a second before Carter's foot collides with the leather, a dull thunk echoing through the stadium as the ball soars, low and long, bypassing the outstretched fingers of the Eagles defenders attempting to block it, hurtling toward the uprights and dropping down just beyond the crossbar.

"Holy shit," Jensen exhales, eyes wide as the two refs on either side of the goal post throw their arms up in the air. "Holy fucking _shit_."

Beside him, Charles lets out a deafening whoop, the rest of the coaches soon joining in, and Jensen feels a swell of relief flood his veins as the scoreboard numbers flash 24-25.

:::

There's no real celebration after the game. The players and coaches head to the locker room to regroup, Kripke addressing the team only briefly, more relieved than congratulatory.

After showering and getting changed, Jared's ushered into the post-game press conference and Jensen watches from the back, arms crossed over his chest as Jared answers all the typical, predictable questions. He's subdued, shoulders hunched as he revisits every misstep and bad pass. He takes responsibility for every mistake, managing a shrug and pained kind of smile when someone asks if he considers it his worst game ever.

"It's up there," he says, scratching idly at his neck. "But, you know. Just gotta learn and move on. Next week will be better."

Jensen leaves before the end to catch a bus back to the hotel. He doesn't know how long it'll take for Jared to finish his obligations, so he steals a bottle of Corona from the mini-bar and kills some time watching the tail end of the afternoon game on Fox. When the post-game report on that airs highlights from the Philly game, complete with clips of every one of Jared's interceptions, Jensen turns off the television.

He doesn't call before heading down, just shows up at Jared's door with half the contents of the mini-bar nestled under one arm.

"The hell?" Jared says when he opens the door. He's dressed in the same pants and t-shirt he'd worn at the press conference, but his feet are bare. Jensen has no idea how long he's been here.

Jensen just smiles and gives a loose shrug. "Didn't wanna show up empty-handed."

"Uh-huh," Jared says, expression warring between annoyance and wary amusement.

"You gonna let me in?"

Jared actually seems to hesitate for a second before stepping back, door opened in invitation. Jensen heads straight for the kitchen nook and drops his armful of bottles on the counter, righting each of them one by one. "Figured we could call up some dinner," he says before grabbing the tiny bottle of Jack and twisting off the cap. "Maybe catch the late game. Colts and Chargers. Should be pretty decent."

Behind him, Jared's quiet and Jensen finally turns around, bottle tipped up to his lips as Jared eyes him skeptically.

"You're not up here to bitch at me?"

Jensen takes a swig of Jack, wincing a little at the burn as his lips stretch into a smile. "Oh, I will tomorrow. Right now, I'm off duty."

It takes a moment for that to really sink in, but then Jared's shoulders relax and his face clears, lips tugging into a smile.

They end up camped out on Jared's bed, cleared-off plates of room service food and empty bottles of booze scattered on the floor as they watch the Chargers march all over the Colts. Not that they're paying much attention.

Instead, Jensen's stretched out on the mattress, pillow tucked under his head, one hand wrapped around the cool neck of a Heineken. Jared's telling one of his brother's surgery stories, something about a rectal exam gone horribly wrong and Jensen can't stop laughing, his whole body shaking with it, face warm and stomach aching. Beside him, Jared's grinning wide, eyes on the television though he doesn't appear to be paying it too much attention.

"You gotta hear him tell it," Jared says, smile loose and easy as he shakes his head. "He's just got this perfect delivery, man. 'Nope, that ain't it.' It's hilarious."

"I bet family functions with him are pretty entertaining," Jensen says. "My brother just talks about corporate politics. Pretty much a constant reminder of why I'm glad I chose to sacrifice my life to a game where grown men beat each other up over an oblong ball. So much more civilized."

Jared snorts, nodding as he glances over briefly. His cheeks are tinged pink in that way they only get after a few drinks and Jensen resists the strange impulse to reach up and touch the flushed skin. Brings his own drink to his lips instead, swallowing as his gaze settles on the TV once more.

"Glad we're not playing these guys this year," Jensen murmurs as Nick Elia, one of his QBs back at OSU, lines up for a second down on the 15-yard line.

Beside him, Jared shifts a little, the mattress dipping under his weight as he scoots further down the bed. One leg bends at the knee and he settles the butt of his beer bottle against his stomach. "Might still," he points out. "In February."

"God, that'd be weird," Jensen mutters with a grin.

"One protégé versus another?"

"You're not a protégé."

"Sure I am," Jared says, rocking his right leg to nudge Jared's knee. "I'm the original, man."

"No, you're just the jerk who stole my job."

Jared barks out a laugh at that, head back as he knocks his elbow against Jensen's shoulder. "Ain't my fault you jacked up your ankle, old man."

"Well, you didn't have to come in and be so fucking _good_."

"You're the one who _encouraged_ me to be good, asshole."

Grinning, Jensen shakes his head as he sits up enough to take another sip of his beer before dropping back into the mattress.

Clearly taking it as an argument, Jared shifts again, lips thinning into a frown as he looks down at Jensen. "Seriously," he says. "You remember that game against Green Bay? It was _bad_ , man. Not-- okay, not six turnovers bad, but I think I threw for one touchdown and completed like, less than half my attempts. Barely two hundred yards or something. I was livid afterward, convinced I'd totally failed the team, that they were gonna bench me and let that asshole Henson take over and you..." He trails off for a second, smiling faintly, hair falling over his eyes and cheeks still flushed from alcohol. "You were right there. Telling me to chill the fuck out, man up and accept that I was the star of the team and all this other crazy bullshit."

"You were a basketcase," Jensen says, smirking a little at the memory.

Laughing, Jared nods, his eyes locked on Jensen's.

"It still took me awhile to believe it," Jared continues, voice a little quieter. "But that was the start, you know? That night."

There's more to that night Jensen remembers. A lot more. And something in Jared's tone makes Jensen think he's not the only one remembering the hours after that little talk, the press of heated skin and desperate, grappling hands. The taste of Jared's mouth.

"You still lost the next couple games," he says, forcing the memory of Jared's hand on his dick to the back of his mind.

Jared laughs, the sound a little choked. "Yeah. Won the last one, though."

"Still missed the playoffs."

"Fuckin' Minnesota."

"Wasn't bad, though," Jensen says. He's practically whispering now, the bottle of Heineken heavy in his grip, condensation wetting the cotton of his t-shirt. Jared's practically a furnace next to him and they aren't even touching. "And you were all banged up anyway. You'd've been shit in the playoffs."

"Yeah, maybe."

Jensen swallows under the weight of Jared's gaze, eyes dark and lips curved in a faint smile. He's suddenly all too aware of the position he's in: sprawled out on Jared's bed, barefoot and loose-limbed, a beer and a half away from drunk with his number one QB only inches away. Anyone happening to stumble in right then would likely find it a little suspect.

Finally tearing his eyes away, Jensen shifts his weight onto his elbows as he pushes himself up. His foot skids against the soft fabric of the comforter and then Jared is right there, moving too quick for Jensen to process, crowding in to press parted lips to the corner of Jensen's mouth. Jensen goes still, muscles tensing as Jared's nose smashes against his cheek and one large hand reaches up to cup his jaw, holding him there.

"Jared--" he manages, the protest cut short by the quick swipe of Jared's tongue into his mouth.

It shatters his defenses, a spike of heat shooting down his spine as Jared crowds in closer, mouth hot and insistent against his own. With a muted thunk, he drops his half-empty bottle to the carpet and grabs at Jared's shirt, fisting the fabric. Grunting, Jared follows the cue, half of his weight settling over Jensen's side, their mouths never parting, all teeth and tongue and hot, ragged breaths.

Jensen's shoulder knocks against the headboard and his back aches from the twisted position, but he barely processes it, everything in him focused on the familiar weight of Jared's body.

"God, Jensen," Jared groans then, his hand moving from Jensen's jaw down to the side of is neck, thumb dipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

The sound of Jared's voice rattles him and Jensen manages to break away, head tipping back as he sucks in a gulp of air. Seemingly taking it as an invitation, Jared ducks lower, stubble scraping against the skin of Jensen's throat, licking and biting almost playfully, and Jensen feels it down to his toes, his whole body shuddering as he gets a hand between them, palm pressed hard against the flat plane of Jared's chest.

"Jared. Jay, hang on."

Jared's lips curve into a grin against his neck and he huffs out a warm breath. Murmurs, "God, I really don't wanna," and Jensen has to close his eyes against the screaming want that rushes through him.

It takes harnessing every bit of willpower he has to give Jared another shove, though his voice still hitches slightly when he says, "Seriously. Stop."

Jared lets out a quiet sound of reluctance, but Jensen's tone must be just enough to get his message across because Jared does pull back, brows furrowed and lips slick. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just-- give me a second."

He feels a little ridiculous saying it, like he's some kind of blushing virgin or something. His blood is thrumming and his head is swimming and every nerve in his body is only screaming for more. And, fuck does he want to give into it. He's spent seven years trying to put this all behind him, then seven months trying to convince himself he'd succeeded. And now this. One taste of Jared's mouth and he's right back to where he started a decade ago.

And the thing is, he knows he could have it. It's right here for him to take.

"Jensen?"

Jensen's eyes snap open. The room suddenly seems too bright, television too loud. And Jared's leaning in close, one hand resting on Jensen's hip, brows knit in concern.

Uncurling his hand from Jared's shirt, he slides off the bed, one foot knocking against an empty plate as he stands.

"What're you-- Jensen."

"We can't do this, Jared. We're not doing this."

Jared doesn't moved from the bed, weight resting on one elbow and legs bent at the knee. Like some kind of fucking pin-up model. "Why not?" he asks, face twisted into a frown. "Is it the player-coach thing? Because I won't tell anyone. You know I won't."

Cringing slightly, Jensen shakes his head. Because, yes, that's part of it, but it's not the whole thing. Not by a long shot.

"I'm seeing someone."

It's not what he intends to say at all and he's not even sure it's really _true_ , but the way Jared's eyes go wide, he instantly knows it's maybe the only thing he could've said to really get Jared to listen to him.

"You don't know him," he adds, though he isn't sure why that matters. "He's not on the team or in the league or... He lives in D.C."

Jared's still just staring at him, slack-jawed.

And then he blinks, looks away. Rubs one hand across his cheek as he pushes himself up to a sitting position.

"Wow, uhm," he says, words drifting off into a choked laugh as he finally manages to meet Jensen's eyes again. "So this is awkward."

It's a poor attempt at lightening the mood, but Jensen latches onto it all the same, lips twisting into a feeble smile as he scratches at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I should've-- it just never really came up."

"Is that the, uh. In Baltimore. That's the friend you met up with?"

"Yeah."

Jared nods, lips pursed like he's trying to process it all. "You could've mentioned it then," he says, quieter.

"Yeah," Jensen says, cringing slightly.

"Yeah," Jared echoes before turning his attention back to the television.

Jensen glances over in time to see the score pop onto the screen as it heads into a commercial break.

"Two minute warning," Jared says and it takes Jensen a moment to realize he's talking about the game. "If you wanna hang here and watch the rest."

Somehow it doesn't feel like the best idea, but Jensen can't deny the strange swell of relief at the offer and he lets out a quiet breath as he nods. Says, "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

He stays long enough to catch the end of the game, the Chargers winning by a solid two touchdown lead. Elia is pulled aside by the field reporter afterward and Jensen's impressed at how effortlessly the kid he remembers from Ohio State handles all the questions, smiling bright under the stadium lights, sweat dripping down his face and dark hair sticking up every which way.

Jared turns off the television once the interview's over and Jensen takes the hint, quickly grabbing his shoes before helping Jared clean up some of the dinner mess.

Ten minutes later, he's back in his own room, the taste of Jared's mouth still heavy on his tongue.


	7. Chapter 7

They don't talk much on the flight back to Dallas the next morning. Jensen sleeps almost the entire way and he's fairly sure Jared does the same.

Kripke holds a team meeting that evening, his opening speech serving to basically inform them of everything they already know. Namely that they managed to escape a humiliating loss by the barest of margins. On the one hand, it's a good thing; a win is a win regardless of how ugly, and they proved capable of overcoming some serious missteps. On the other, with the Redskins game only six days away and the Packers a week later, it's a performance they absolutely cannot afford to repeat.

Practice feels more intense for the first couple days, every player seemingly determined to show his worth, Jared more so than most. His typical relaxed behavior is all but completely absent, every movement careful and focused, both on the field and in meetings.

Jensen can't help wondering how much and how little of it has to do with football.

Mike calls him Thursday, just as he's packing up his notes to head home for the night.

"Still thinking about it," he says, tucking the phone under his chin as he grabs his bag.

"Have you even looked at the list?"

"Baby steps."

"Jesus Christ, Jensen, you're killin' me here."

"I'll call you when I make a decision, alright? Stop nagging."

"Yeah, well if I don't, I'll be waiting the rest of my natural life to hear anything. Or I'll break down and murder you in your sleep."

"Can't murder me, Mike," Jensen says, grinning as he steps out into the parking lot. "I make you way too much money."

He actually does manage to take a look at the list when he gets home that night, though he still can't shake the uneasy feeling. There's one name on the list he recognizes and makes a note of it before sending it off to Danneel. If there's anyone whose opinion he trusts in this regard, it's definitely hers.

The team does walk-through on Friday followed by another review in the afternoon to go over a few last-minute changes to the game plan. Due to injuries, they're calling some guys up from the practice squad and arrangements are made to get them into field practice on Saturday morning. Luckily, Jensen doesn't actually have to show up for those.

"Everyone else," Kripke says, eying the room carefully, "I want you to get some rest and get focused. Watch some TV, eat some good food, maybe spend some time with family if they're around, whatever. Just be ready for Sunday. This is a big game."

He gets a few grunts of acknowledgment in reply, the sounds melting into rumbles of movement as everyone starts gathering their things to leave.

"Hey, hold up now. Cool down," Kripke says, voice a little sharper. The room quiets. "Coach Campo's got a few more things to go over with you before you're free to go. Dave?"

On cue, Campo shuffles to the front of the room, face pinched into a scowl.

"Well, it's that time of year, boys," he says, tone low and raspy, drenched in apparent disapproval. "And I know some of you dread this for months, but I'm afraid there's no getting around it."

A murmur starts in the front couple rows and Jensen glances over to see a handful of vets nudging elbows and smiling. He has no idea what's going on, but it seems to be spreading until Aldis pipes up with, "Time and place, Coach?"

Campo breaks into a grin then. Says, "Day of, gentlemen. Festivities begin at 9:00 PM sharp and end when my wife gets sick of your ugly faces. There'll be an open bar and open pool and you'd better come dressed in your best costume or you won't make it past the front door."

Jensen laughs as it all becomes clear and Jeff flashes a grin.

"Last year I went as Santa Claus," he says with, gathering up his notes and slinging his bag up over his shoulder. "Then drank so much I puked all over my beard. There's some pretty indecent pictures out there somewhere, let me tell you."

"Please promise me I never have to see them."

Jeff only grins wider. Says, "This year I'm going as Jesus."

:::

Jensen doesn't intend to spend his day off helping his brother install a ceiling fan, but that's what happens.

He's sweating buckets by the end of it, arms aching from being held above his head for what feels like hours. Josh comes down from the attic looking even worse, shirt dark under his pits and sticking to his back.

Grimacing, his brother tugs off his shirt and wipes it across his forehead, still breathing hard.

Logan wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, gross."

Josh just grins and tosses the dirtied shirt as his son's face.

"Dad!"

"Next time, I'm making you do more than just hold the ladder," he says as Jensen bends over to pick up the discarded shirt and drapes it over his nephew's shoulder.

Logan immediately tries to dodge it, shooting Jensen a sharp glare as the shirt again falls to the ground. "Could've done it this time," he says, petulant.

"Aww, did I steal your glory?" Jensen asks, fighting a grin. "Sorry, man. Next time it's all yours, I promise."

The look Logan gives him isn't one he's expecting and he has a hard time reading it. His brows are furrowed and he looks halfway between disgusted and pouty. It doesn't suits him.

"Whatever, I have homework," Logan finally grumbles, pushing his way out of the room.

Jensen turns to watch him go and then looks to his brother, eyebrow arched.

"What the hell's up with him?"

"Got me, man. Teenagers."

They spend the afternoon playing video games in the living room with Brodie, only pausing for dinner. Jensen is more than a little ashamed to get his ass kicked by a nine year old at _Tokyo Overdrive_ and Josh is more than eager to rub it in.

"Alright, I've had enough," Jensen finally says in surrender a few hours later.

"You're really bad at this," Brodie tells him.

"You headin' out?" Josh asks, stretching his back. "What time's the game tomorrow?"

"Three," Jensen says, patting Brodie's side as he gets to his feet. "Gotta get my ass to the hotel here soon, though."

"Ahh, right. Can't miss curfew," Josh mocks.

Jensen flips him off as he heads to the stairs.

Logan's bedroom is up and to the left, a No Parking At Any Time sign affixed to the closed door and Jensen leans in to hear the low thump-thump of music just beyond before knocking.

"Hey, man. It's your uncle, can I come in for a sec?"

He doesn't get an immediate response and the volume of the music doesn't change at all, but before he's about to knock again, Logan pulls the door open and frowns up at him. "Yeah?"

"Just coming to say goodbye," he says. "Can I come in?"

Logan gives Jensen a scrutinizing, wary look. "Why?"

"Well, I heard a rumor," Jensen replies, doing his best to ignore his nephew's moodiness. It's maybe been awhile, but Jensen remembers being that age and having a healthy distrust of authority. It's not a big deal unless he makes it one. "Something about a birthday coming up here in a couple weeks? Thought maybe you could help me out on the present thing."

"You could just ask Dad," Logan says, though some of the odd suspicion in his eyes seems to dim somewhat.

"Dude, I don't know if you noticed, but your dad's kind of a loser," Jensen says. "I'd rather get ideas straight from the source."

"He's not a loser." Again, it's not what Jensen's expecting and this time it throws him a little. "Whatever, just... I want a new iPod," he says when Jensen can only gape at him. "A black one. Or a TV."

"What, not a car?"

He's clearly joking, but Logan's still not so much as giving him a hint of a smile. "Why? Not like I can drive it."

Huffing a breath, Jensen shakes his head and takes a step back. It's clear Logan's not in the mood to engage further and Jensen knows better than to push it.

"Alright, iPod or television. Got it."

"Yeah."

"Nothing else?"

Logan shrugs.

He comes up with nothing more after a few further seconds of prodding and Logan shuts the door as he's saying his goodbyes, offering only a grunt of acknowledgment.

It's unsettling, but Jensen chooses to ignore it for the time being as he jogs back down the stairs, grabbing his car fob from the hook by the door. "Alright, I'm out," he says and isn't at all surprised when Josh only gives him a wave from the other room.

"Thanks for the help earlier, man," he says. "And good luck tomorrow."

"Bye, Uncle Jensen!" Brodie calls out, clearly still distracted by his video game and Jensen leaves with a smile on his face.

:::

They beat the Redskins 48-27 with Jared throwing for six touchdowns and more than 300 passing yards. He also fumbles in the second quarter, but it's only half his fault.

There are a few other minor mistakes and a couple dents and bruises to various players, but nothing too critical. If nothing else, it's a significant improvement from their performance the week before.

Jensen finds Jared in the locker room after the game, claps a hand on his bare shoulder and squeezes tight. Jared's skin is warm under his touch, still flushed from the game and hot shower. He doesn't let it linger.

"Great game," he says, meaning it completely.

Jared's smile is small, but genuine and he wipes a towel over his face before draping it across his opposite shoulder. "Do I hear some relief in your tone, Ackles?" he says, teasing.

Jensen shoots his a grin. "Can you blame me?"

"Just one bad game," Jared says, shaking his head. "You know me better than that."

And the thing is, Jensen does. Which is why he's only relieved and not surprised. Not that he says as much.

Once he's back home that night and relaxing in front of his television, he calls Matt. The late game is just finishing up, but he's barely paying it any attention. The Jaguars pretty much have the win sealed, ahead by two and a half touchdowns with only five minutes left in the game. It's hardly a nail-biter.

"If you're calling to gloat, I should remind you that a.) I could pretty much not possibly care less about football and, b.) only know about the outcome of today's game at all because of my neighbor's constant screaming this afternoon."

Smirking, Jensen lets his head drop back against the couch. "You take the fun out of everything."

"I can go wake him up and put him on the line if it'll make you feel better. But I'll warn you: he may be cranky."

"I'm surprised you're awake."

"I'm a night owl," Matt says, grin still evident even as his tone shifts slightly. "And I was kinda hoping to hear from you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jensen laughs and he lifts a hand to scratch at his neck as he shifts against the couch cushions. "Wow, so now I suddenly feel like a thirteen year old girl. Awesome."

"Just what I was going for."

They haven't talked about their relationship, about whether it's really anything more than friends who occasionally fuck and, as far as Jensen's concerned, he's pretty okay with keeping it that way. Communication in this regard has never been one of his strengths.

And things are good just as they are. Uncomplicated. He's pretty intent on keeping it that way.

"So if you're not calling to gloat, to what do I owe the honor?" Matt finally says, interrupting Jensen's thoughts.

"I just longed for the sound of your voice," Jensen says, unable to keep back his grin as Matt laughs in his ear. "You're so dreamy, I can barely stand it."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Jensen snorts a laugh, tone turning only slightly more serious as he says, "Actually, I do have a reason. Or question, I guess."

"No, I have never done gay porn, amateur or otherwise. That guy just looks a lot like me. Also, my dick is bigger."

Jensen blinks, mouth falling open before he catches on that Matt's joking and he starts laughing. " _What_?"

"I've actually gotten that question before," Matt admits. "Just trying to cover my bases here."

"Well, this one's way less X-rated, I promise."

"Hit me."

Still grinning a little, Jensen says, "Well, what are you doing for Halloween?"

:::

Kripke grants the team a Victory Monday much to everyone's relief. At nearly halfway through the regular season, the players are well accustomed to the routine by now, the days running like a well-oiled machined with every player knowing just exactly where to be and when. But even with a routine, every week is different, the areas of improvement varying almost day to day dependent on player injury and performance while game plans rely entirely on the strengths and weaknesses of their opponents as well the defensive and offensive schemes employed by them. In some cases, the location of the game also plays a factor.

The fact that they're playing the Packers in Green Bay, for instance, is something they can't in any way take for granted.

"It's going to be cold," Kripke says during their review meeting on Friday. "Almost certainly overcast and we could see some snow. Equipment for warmth will be available so dress appropriately. Make sure you show up early to check the field for cleat length and get to Gabe well in advance. He can't help you if you don't let him know.

"Since the media sure as hell won't shut up about it, I know I don't need to tell you this, but we've got history against us here," he continues, pacing slowly at the front of the room, every player and coach in the room listening intently. "To date, this franchise has never won a game at Lambeau Field. Now, considering we're sixty years old, that's a pretty staggering statistic."

He falls quiet then, letting his statement linger as he looks across the room. " _But_ ," he adds, one finger raised, "what the media and football analysts never mention is the fact that, while the franchise name may stay the same, we're a different team year to year. We are not the same team that lost to the Packers in Green Bay last year just as we are not the team who defeated them four years before that. So that monkey we supposedly have on our back? It's not there. There is absolutely no reason we shouldn't win this game. Hell, I _expect_ you to win this game."

His last statement is strong, sharp enough to send a faint echo through the room as he lets it settle. Once again, he surveys the room, gaze moving from player to player, like he's trying to make sure he's really gotten his message across before finally dropping his hand, the muscles of his shoulders visibly relaxing.

"Alright, let's call it out."

:::

Logan's birthday party is Saturday afternoon, but with the plane to Wisconsin leaving at 10:00 in the morning that same day, Jensen has to miss it.

Intellectually, he knows it's not a big deal. He's missed more birthdays than he's been present for in the case of virtually every single one of his family members, both immediate and extended. And he knows that, for the most part, they don't hold it against him. But given that he's actually living in Dallas now, he feels he should at least have the opportunity to take advantage of these things.

Which is why he shows up Friday night, gift-wrapped box in hand.

"It's not a TV," Logan says as Jensen hands it over.

Laughing, Jensen nods. "Not a TV. Sorry to disappoint."

For a second, it looks as though Logan's trying to decide whether or not to be disappointed before he starts ripping into the package to reveal the black and silver box of a new iGame.

"Oh, _cool_."

"You like it?"

"I've been wanting one of these for months!"

"Yeah, that's what your dad said," Jensen says, glancing over briefly at Josh. "Guess he's not such a loser after all."

"Hey," Josh remarks and Jensen tosses him a grin.

Logan hesitates for a second, staring with wide eyes down at the box before he looks over to Jensen again. "Thanks," he says, something in his expression giving Jensen pause, though he decides to chalk it up to that whole teenager thing again.

Josh and Allie insist he stay for dinner and, considering his only other option is his woefully empty refrigerator, he doesn't put up too much of a fight. Brodie talks through most of the meal, going into great detail about the dinosaur unit his class is currently covering. To be honest, Jensen finds the little factoids he spits out pretty interesting.

After they're through with dinner and Jensen and the boys have taken care of the clean-up, Jensen says, "So, Logan. You wanna show me how to use that thing?"

"You've never played one before?" Logan asks, wiping his damp hands on his jeans as he looks at Jensen like he's grown a second head.

"Dude, it took me like a decade to get an iPod."

"An iGame is _way_ different than an iPod."

"Yeah, that's what the lady at the Apple store told me. I still don't really get it."

Logan rolls his eyes, but Jensen doesn't miss the small grin he's trying to hide. "Alright, come on."

He spends the next hour getting tutored in handheld gaming, though most of that is spent watching Logan gleefully dive into his new toy.

"Check this out," he says at one point, elbowing Jensen in the shoulder and then tilting so Jensen can see the guy on screen. Logan shakes and tilts the console and his pixilated avatar runs and leaps onto a nearby ledge, nearly toppling off the opposite end before Logan levels it off once more. "How cool is that?"

"Incredibly cool," Jensen says, smirking.

It's well past 10:00 when he decides to call it a night.

"Alright, buddy," he says, bumping his fist against Logan's thigh as he gets to his feet. "It's been fun, but I'm gettin' old for all this partyin'."

Logan puts his game on pause and then glances up, studying Jensen for a few seconds before letting out a quick exhale. "If I ask you something, do you promise not to get weird?"

Jensen's smile slips and he drops his shoulders mid-stretch. "Uh. Define weird."

"I dunno," Logan says, lips twisting into a frown. "Just..."

"Fair warning - if this involves sex, drugs or possible criminal charges, I can't promise I won't tell your parents."

He's only half-joking, but it seems to make Logan relax a little bit, a small laugh curving lips as he shakes his head.

"There's just. Some kids at my school have been talking."

Jensen waits a few seconds for Logan to continue before asking, "About?"

Logan winces slightly. "You."

And just like that Jensen gets it. Or at least some of it, bits and pieces of Logan's recent behavior suddenly making a lot more sense. Though he isn't sure whether to feel relieved or somehow guilty.

"It's the gay thing, huh?"

Picking at a frayed piece of denim at his knee, Logan nods.

"You wanna tell me what they're saying?"

"All kinds of things," he says with a shrug. "Gross things. They call you a fag a lot. And other stuff."

Jensen finds it completely unsurprising and he pulls in a slow breath as he takes a seat next to Logan on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "And what do you say in response?"

Logan shrugs. "Most of the time I just laugh and tell them to shut up."

"Does it work?"

"Sometimes."

Nodding, Jensen falls quiet. This isn't an issue he's really had to deal with before. Not like this. He's used to people being uncomfortable around him, it's not a big deal. Even his parents' discomfort is something he barely notices anymore.

But it's different with Logan. More important.

When Logan speaks again, his voice is quieter. "Why can't you just be normal?"

Jensen does wince then and it takes him a couple seconds to respond. "Guess it's pretty hard being the kid at school with the famous gay uncle, huh?"

"I just don't like what they say about you. They don't _know_ you."

"So tell them they're wrong."

"I can't! They're not lying. You really are a fag."

"No, I'm not," Jensen says calmly. "I'm a gay man."

"Same thing."

"It's not the same thing. I know you're smart enough to get that."

Logan falls quiet then, staring down at his hands once again. Fidgeting.

"I'm glad you're talking to me about this," Jensen says after a moment or two.

"You're not angry?"

Jensen feels a faint tug under his ribcage and his lips twist into a small smile as he shakes his head. "No. Not angry. You can talk to me about this whenever you want, okay? I don't want you to be ashamed of me."

"I'm not, I'm just..."

He trails off and Jensen knows better than to push it, just rests one hand at Logan's back. "I know," he says, moving his hand up to curl over Logan's shoulder. "You're an awesome kid, you know that, right?"

Logan huffs a laugh and finally manages to meet Jensen's eyes. "Awesome enough to get a car in a couple years?" he asks, the teasing twist of his lips a welcome relief.

"Thought you said you didn't want a car."

"Just plannin' for the future," Logan says, still grinning and Jensen gives him a light shove as he gets to his feet.

"You're Josh's kid for sure," he says. "Don't push your luck."

Logan laughs again, a soft breath of a sound and then holds up the iGame console. Says, "Thanks for this."

"Hey, no problem. May have to get one for myself now that you've shown me how to actually use it."

"If you do we could play each other," Logan says, brightening at the idea.

"Yeah? Well, hell. I guess that settles it."

He calls Mike on Monday. They have the day off, Kripke granting them a good thirty-six hours of rest before practice is set to resume Tuesday afternoon.

"I'll do it," he says.

Mike's silence is entirely too satisfying. Then, "Is this a really belated April Fool's joke?"

Ignoring him, Jensen glances down at his notepad, Danneel's e-mail displayed on the screen. "I want Sophia Bush to do the interview," he says, reading off the name Danneel had bolded and underlined, the same one he'd recognized right away. As the ex-wife of one Chad Michael Murray, Jensen questions her taste a little, but he knows from first-hand experience that she's a good reporter. And it doesn't hurt to have Danneel's stamp of approval.

"Ooh, good choice," Mike agrees, though Jensen has the distinct feeling Mike would be equally thrilled if he'd picked Mickey Mouse.

"And photo shoot ideas or themes or whatever have to be cleared through me in writing in advance."

"Man, you're not fucking around, are you?"

Jensen doesn't answer, already fighting the mounting dread in the pit of his stomach. He wipes a hand along the knee of his jeans and forces himself to relax, phone still pressed to his ear.

"Alright, I'll make the arrangements," Mike says, still sounding far too excited. "You got any big dates coming up I should know about? Anything I need to work around?"

"You have my schedule," Jensen says, then adds, "Nothing too intense here. We're talking a sit-down interview, maybe a day where she comes to a game. But I don't want her following me around for a month."

"Got it."

"Okay."

Mike's quiet then except for the soft clicking of computer keys Jensen can barely make out. He takes another slow breath and Mike says, "This is good, Jensen. I know you're totally freaking out right now, but this is really, really good."

"I'm not freaking out," Jensen says.

"Yeah, whatever. Listen, I'll call you back later, alright? Once I have everything sorted."

"Okay."

"Go for a run or something. Chill out."

"I'm _fine_. Jesus."

He feels a little nauseated as he hangs up and immediately hunches forward, elbows on his knees as he runs a clammy hand over his face.

Yeah, okay, he's maybe freaking out a little.

:::

"Notice right here," Jensen says, tapping the stylus against the screen to send the clip into slow motion. "We've got zone on the strong side, man-to-man on weak. Good opportunity for an easy shot up the middle to the tight end and we've got ourselves a first down, provided the defensive end," he pauses long enough to circle said defensive end, "doesn't break through and send you kissing the turf."

Tapping the screen again, he sends the clip back to the beginning, letting it play out in real time, glancing back to make sure his QBs are all paying attention.

"Pittsburgh is an extremely physical team," he says. "They play fast and they play hard. We're looking at a lot of blitzes, a lot of pass rushing and a lot of open space up the middle."

Porter nods along, taking notes as Jensen continues. Jared's busy chewing on the end of his pen, eyes focused on the screen.

They go through a dozen more schemes, reviewing the strategy and execution of each before Jensen releases them for the evening.

Gathering up his notes, he gives Jared a nod. "Hey."

Jared pulls the pen out of his mouth with one hand, the other swinging his duffle over his shoulder as he raises an eyebrow.

"You got plans tonight?" Jared's brow furrows and Jensen adds, "I was thinking of grabbing dinner somewhere. Could use the company."

"I, uh. I'm actually busy, yeah."

"Oh," Jensen says, not bothering to deny the twist of disappointment. "Well, hey. No worries. Just thought I'd ask."

"Yeah," Jared says, something a little off in his tone, though Jensen refuses to look at it too closely. Things have been awkward since Philadelphia, Jared more than a little stand-offish in a way Jensen's not at all used to.

"You going to Campo's party this weekend?" he asks as he flips off the digital screen and shoulders his bag.

"Definitely," Jared replies with a hint of his familiar grin. "It's tradition, man. Best night of the year."

Jensen arches an eyebrow. "Why do I get the feeling I should be worried?"

"You got a costume?"

"I'm going as a pro football coach," he says. "Already got my whistle and everything."

"Har har."

"What about you?"

"Still deciding," Jared says. "Either Chippendale dancer or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man."

"Ooh, tough choice."

"They're just so similar, it's hard to pick, you know?" Jared says with a grin that then falters slightly as he cocks his head to the side. "So, uh. You comin' alone?"

Subtlety has never been one of Jared's strong suits.

"No, uhm," Jensen starts, darting a glance at the opened door as his voice quiets. There's no logical reason to feel he has anything to hide, but he can't help it. "Matt's flying out. Should be a good time."

"Matt," Jared echoes and Jensen realizes it's the first Jensen's mentioned his name.

"What about you?" Jensen says, eager to shift the focus off himself. "Probably a line of women eager to hang off your arm for an evening."

He says it with a smile, not intending it to be anything less than friendly teasing, but he doesn't miss the way Jared's jaw tenses as he grips at the strap of his bag.

"N'ah, just me," Jared says, clearly working to keep his voice even. "Not really seeing anyone, so. Anyway, it'll be a good time," Jared hurries to add, though his smile is tight. "Lookin' forward to meeting Matt."

"I'm looking forward to getting really fucking hammered."

He says it with a completely straight face, meaning it more than he really wants to let on, and Jared blinks and lets out a quick laugh, his smile suddenly a lot more genuine. "Yeah, that, too."

:::

Logan and Brodie sacrifice their Friday night to help with Jensen's costume.

"You know, you could've just bought one online," Logan points out while carefully painting the bottom of the upturned sled.

"They all came with tights," Jensen says, scowling faintly at the mess of red on his hands as he props one freshly painted boot onto a sheet of newspaper to dry. "No way am I wearing tights."

"But you're gay." Jensen arches an eyebrow and Logan glances up, smiling with a mock innocence. "I thought all gay guys wore tights."

"Superman wears tights," Brodie points out.

Laughing, Jensen shakes his head and nudges Brodie with his elbow. "Spiderman, too."

"Both gay," Logan decides.

By midnight, Jensen has a costume. It's not the most well-crafted one he's ever seen and he still has dried red and blue paint under his fingernails, but he's pretty happy with it all the same. He's wearing jeans instead of tights, the bottom cuffs tucked into red cowboy boots and a thick black belt stolen from his brother holds wraps around his waist. He's wearing a blue t-shirt with a white iron-on star in the middle and vertical red and white stripes at the bottom that Allie fixed up for him and a blue ball cap on his head sporting a paper A on the front and shoddily-crafted paper wings on either side.

"Not bad," Josh agrees when Jensen models for him. He's been entirely unhelpful all evening, though Jensen really hadn't expected anything less. "I like the gloves."

Lifting his hands, Jensen curls his fingers, making the thin rubber squeak slightly. "Courtesy of your wife."

"Thought they looked familiar."

"I did the hat and Logan did the shield," Brodie says.

"Pretty impressive."

"I think Brodie should make his own costume next year," Allie agrees and Brodie's face practically lights up.

"Okay! I'm gonna be Batman! Uncle Jensen can help me."

"Absolutely," Jensen agrees.

Logan grins. "Batman wears tights."

:::

Jensen's on his second drink of the evening before he and Matt even leave the house.

"Hey, relax," Matt says, pulling the glass away and crowding in close. "It's not like you're revealing anything they don't already know."

"There's a difference between knowing and _knowing_ ," Jensen says and Matt grins, brushing a thumb along the inside of Jensen's wrist.

"So long as we don't start fucking right in front of them, I think they can deal."

Logically, he knows Matt's right. Or at least wants to believe as much. But he still finishes his drink before calling a cab.

A guy in a grey wig and paste-on bushy mustache is the first to greet them at the door and it takes Jensen a second to figure out it's Aldis underneath.

"Don't tell me," Jensen says, Matt right behind him as he steps in. "Either Don King or Albert Einstein."

"Or Mark Twain," Matt tries and Aldis's face immediately snaps into a grin.

"Oh, he is good."

"Seriously?" Jensen says, adjusting his grip in his make-shift shield. "You picked Mark Twain?"

"Man, don't look at me like that. Dixon's the one frontin' the geek train tonight; boy's here as George Washington Carver." He turns to Matt then, hand outstretched. "Aldis Hodge," he says, still smiling. "You a friend of coach's?"

Jensen's instantly on edge, Matt smiles wide and takes Aldis's hand. "Yeah, Jensen and I went to high school together, actually. Matt Carrington."

"Good to meet you, Matt. Or should I say, Mr. Stark?"

Laughing, Matt pulls his hand back to adjust his opened white button-down shirt, making sure the glowing circular chest piece is clearly visible.

Aldis just grins and then points over the sea of costumed heads filling the front room. "Drinks and food in the kitchen. Pool outside. Darts, billiards, hookers and blow downstairs," he declares. "Please leave your weapons at the door and remember, kids, just say no."

A Corona or three later, Jensen's ditched the shield and has the red rubber gloves shoved in the back pocket of his jeans. Matt's on his third Mojito and has his aviator sunglasses perched on his head, suit jacket long gone as he and Demaryius debate the cultural influence of the Simpsons on middle America.

Or something like that. Jensen's not really paying much attention.

His gaze is focused a few yards away on where Jared's laughing with a few guys on the O-line. He's wearing a flesh-colored muscle suit, arms and thighs bulging even more prominently than normal. Both wrists are covered in leather cuffs and there's a matching band around his head. The whole ensemble is capped off by a pretty impressive leather skirt.

Jensen has to bite back a laugh.

Nudging Matt's arm, he leans in and says, "Hey, I'm gonna get another beer. You good?"

Matt only gives a nod and Jensen makes his way through the crowd. Campo's house is completely full to capacity with players, coaches, wives and girlfriends, every last one of them dressed in outrageous, hilarious costumes. Jensen has to duck a few fairly prominent wigs on his way to the kitchen and he makes a very slight detour on route.

"I see the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man got a new look," he says, voice pitched loud enough to be heard over the noise.

Jared turns slowly, gaze dropping to take in Jensen's costume before he huffs out a laugh. "Dude!"

"You look seriously ridiculous."

"And you look like your costume was made by a ten year old."

"One nine year old and one teenager, actually," Jensen says. "And a sister-in-law."

"Really?" Jared says, his smile turning even brighter. "That's pretty awesome."

"I did the boots," he adds, glancing down at the flaking paint job.

"Oh, man," Jared replies, face pulling into an exaggerated cringe. "I can't believe you did that to a perfectly good pair of cowboy boots."

Jensen shrugs. "They were old."

"I got mine custom," Jared says, standing up taller to let Jensen get a better look. He flexes one fake bicep.

"The headband really pulls it together."

"Yeah?" Jared says, grinning wider as he puffs his chest out and mimes flicking his hair back. It's not quite as long as it should be to really pull off the look, but it's close enough. "Really brings out my eyes, doesn't it?"

"Should wear it to practice."

"Thinkin' about it. Not sure how well it'll fit under the helmet, though."

Smirking, Jensen nods past Jared's shoulder towards the kitchen. "I'm gonna get myself another drink. Want me to grab you somethin'?"

"Yeah, thanks," Jared says, squeezing to get out of Jensen's way as he passes. "Get me whatever you're having."

There's a crowd around the bar in the kitchen, a mass of familiar, half-drunken faces hidden under make-up, some more frightening than others. He finds himself in a conversation with Genghis Khan and Abraham Lincoln.

"I feel like I'm in the middle of _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_ ," he says.

Genghis -- otherwise known as David Huynh, the team's rookie outside linebacker -- claps a meaty hand on his shoulder and grins. "Showin' your age, Coach."

"Fuck you, _Bill & Ted_ is a classic."

"It's got Matthew Broderick in it, right?" Kyle says, tugging at his fake beard. "Think my mom showed me that when I was, like, eight."

"Keep it up and I'm telling Gill to give you extra reps on Monday."

It's another ten minutes before the Dracula-inspired bartender hands over two ice cold beers and Jensen makes his way back through the crowd, stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with whomever he bumps into along the way.

By the time Jensen makes it back, Jared has company.

"Jensen, hey," Matt says, smiling bright and loose as they bump shoulders. "You know who I just met?"

"Conan the Barbarian?" Jensen says, trying for a grin as he hands Jared a beer.

The smile Jared gives him in return is definitely strained and it quickly disappears entirely behind the lip of his beer bottle.

"This guy's a superstar, Jensen," Matt says, smiling wide. Jensen's suddenly sure he's not the only one drunk. "I've seen him on magazines!"

"Not in a loin cloth, I hope," Jensen says.

Jared manages another pained smile, his gaze locking on Jensen's for a moment too long, like he has something to say, though Jensen can't imagine what it might be. A blink and it's gone, Jared turning his fake smile onto Matt again. "I try to save this outfit for special occasions," he says, eyes flicking to Jensen once more.

"So, uhm," Jensen says, faltering slightly under the impression he's missed something important. "I take it I don't need to make any introductions."

"Mmm," Jared says, quickly swallowing another sip of beer before pointing the tip at Jensen. "Matt was just telling me what he does for a living. Interesting stuff."

Jared's giving him that look again, eyes narrowed and head tilted slightly.

"Yeah," he says, sucking the taste of Heineken off his bottom lip as he turns to Matt. "He does good work. Not, like. I mean, it's not as important as football or anything, but you know."

"Nothing is," Matt says, playing right along with a wide grin.

Jensen grins right back. "Good answer."

Jared's quiet for a moment then, his gaze dragging from Jensen to Matt and back again, smile fading. "Right," he finally says before letting out a breath and shaking his head. A blink, and there's another smile on his face, seemingly more genuine this time, though Jensen still feels he's missing something.

"Football could bring about world peace, I think," Matt continues, seemingly oblivious to any potential awkwardness. "Just stick all the world leaders into pads and have 'em go at it. Or screw the pads and make it a fight to the death."

"Well, then it'd be rugby," Jensen points out.

The joke seems to fall a little flat with Matt, but Jared grins, lips quirked at one corner.

"Hey, listen. I'm gonna head downstairs," Jared says then. "Promised Abel that I'd let him win a few rounds of darts, so..."

"No, yeah. Go," Jensen says, waving him off.

"You're welcome to join."

Jensen doesn't doubt that the invitation is genuine, but he doesn't even bother asking Matt before shaking his head. Only a couple minutes of serious awkwardness is his limit.

"Think we're gonna stay up here and get trashed," he says. "Maybe drown in the pool."

Matt nods his agreement and holds up his nearly empty bottle. "Or drown in our own vomit."

"Alright, well. I'll catch you later then," Jared says, barely cracking a smile before he turns to Matt. "It was good meeting you."

"Good meeting you, too!" Matt says.

Jared walks away with his beer raised high in salute and Jensen watches him get swallowed up in the crowd before turning his attention back to Matt.

"Nice guy," Matt says.

Jensen forces a smile. "Yeah."

:::

They barely make it through the front door before Jensen has Matt up against the wall, one hand tangled in the front of his shirt, the other shoved between their hips, fingers fumbling at the top button of Matt's slacks.

Matt manages to have enough sense to get the door shut before grabbing hold of Jensen's face, hips arching as tongues and teeth collide. Jensen's sobered some over the course of the night, though not enough to make his movements particularly coordinated and he struggles to get his hand into Matt's pants while Matt keeps hold of his mouth, licking in with hot, fevered swipes. It breaks the second Jensen gets his hand around Matt's dick, noses smashed together as Matt shudders, breath hot against Jensen's open mouth.

"Jesus, Jensen."

Jensen sucks him off right there, just inside the front door, Matt moaning and grunting the entire time, whispering Jensen's name like a litany. They make their way to Jensen's bedroom after, nearly tripping over every step, Jensen's dick painfully hard inside his jeans. Matt laughs and tugs at his shirt, his cheeks flushed as he bites at Jensen's lips and tackles him to the bed.

Later, soiled condom discarded and washcloth thrown to the other side of the room, Jensen lays sprawled out on his bed, his dick soft against his thigh as Matt draws idle patterns on the skin of his stomach.

"I'm doing an interview," he says, eyes on the ceiling.

Matt's fingers slow, hand resting for a moment before he says, "You're doing an interview."

"With _Details_."

"You're kidding."

"Reporter's flying in next weekend. Photo shoot is a couple weeks from now in New York."

"Holy shit."

Jensen huffs a breath, amused by Matt's disbelief.

"So they finally wore you down."

"They actually haven't mentioned it recently," Jensen says, finally turning his head to look over at Matt. "Got bigger things to worry about, I guess."

Matt's smile fades a little and he moves in closer, his hand smoothing up over Jensen's chest. "Then what made you change your mind?"

Shrugging, Jensen pulls in a breath, lets it out slowly. He doesn't reply.

"Well, you already know my opinion," Matt says a moment later.

"Yeah."

"Think you can handle it?"

Jensen makes a soft noise then, something between a breath and a laugh, lips curling upward as he shakes his head. "It's a done deal. Pretty sure my agent'll cut off my balls if I change my mind."

Matt flinches, expression exaggerated as he slides his hand down the stretch of Jensen's stomach and lower, curling warm over Jensen's groin. "Can't have that."

"I'm pretty fond of 'em."

"Pretty fond of 'em myself," Matt agrees.

Groaning, Jensen lets his legs fall open as he grips Matt's upper arm, tugging. Following the cue, Matt presses in close for a slow, warm kiss. There's no real intent behind it, just lazy exploration for a few long, perfect moments.

After awhile, Matt's hand slides up to his waist and Jensen rolls to his side, their kisses slowing.

He falls asleep soon after, Matt's breath warm against his cheek.


	8. Chapter 8

Practice starts in full force Monday morning. Luckily, most everyone appears to have recovered from the party, though Jensen can't help noticing a few who look a little worse for wear.

Kripke takes no pity, clearly intent on the game ahead as he works to adjust the offensive line to face Pittsburgh's blitz-happy defense. Jared has a quick draw and near-perfect precision, but he's never been particularly mobile; his strength is in footwork and quick thinking within the pocket, in placing the ball where only his receiver can reach it. Outside the pocket, he falters.

Pittsburgh will doubtlessly do their best to get him out the pocket.

"Alright, run it again," Jeff shouts during field practice on Wednesday. "Good read on the break-away, Chambers. Let's hustle!"

The players line up as ordered, Jared hunching behind center for the hut. They have no real way of replicating the Pittsburgh defense so instead they're stacking up, putting an extra man on the defensive line, forcing their offense to work harder.

Tackling Jared is forbidden, but he takes more than a couple hits in the course of practice. It doesn't bode well.

The game plan changes slightly on Thursday, Kripke opting to work in more running plays in the hopes of lessening the likelihood of Jared having to scramble in the backfield. By the time they're finished with walk-throughs on Friday, the entire team is tired, but clearly more confident.

Jared stops by Jensen's office later while Jensen's watching game film on his computer. He's not really processing much of it, too distracted by his plans for the following day and when Jared's knuckles tap lightly against the wooden door, Jensen startles, heart momentarily leaping into his throat.

"Hey, sorry," Jared says, smiling faintly as he steps inside. "Wasn't tryin' to scare you."

"You didn't," Jensen lies with his own small smile. He pauses the clip and sits back to look at Jared. "What's up?"

"Not much. Just checking in. We haven't talked a whole lot recently."

Jensen frowns. "We talk every day."

"No, you coach me every day."

"Right, yeah," Jensen says. "Sorry, things are just..."

Jared shakes his head, lips still curved in a smile. "Dude, it's cool. I mean, I get it, it's not-- Anyway, I was just coming by to see if maybe you wanted to do drinks or somethin' tomorrow. I still owe you."

Jensen huffs a laugh. "I'd love to, seriously," he says, utterly honest. "But I can't."

Jared doesn't respond, but his smile dims considerably.

"I have, uh... I'm giving an interview," he explains with his best hopeful smile. "With Murray's ex-wife, actually. Should be interesting."

"You're doing an interview?"

"Yeah."

"I thought... Wait, are they making you?"

"No," Jensen says, something about Jared's question making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. "Not really anyway. I just... you know. Thought it might be a good idea."

"A good idea."

"Yeah."

Jared's brow furrows, lips twisting into an unpleasant frown. "I thought you hated that shit."

"I do," Jensen assures him. There's a prickling under his skin, a growing sense of unease as he tries to figure out why Jared seems to care so much.

"And now what? Now it's fine? No big deal?"

"Dude, what the hell's your problem?" Jensen snaps, voice low as he slides the opened door a quick glance.

"I'm just trying to understand, Jensen. Help me out here."

"Understand what? So I'm doing an interview, what's the fucking deal? You do them all the time."

"Yeah, but I'm not _you_. What happened to wanting to protect your privacy? All that 'Leave me alone, I just want to coach football' bullshit?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"Is Matt making you do this?"

Jensen laughs again, harsh and humorless and he shakes his head. He's seen Jared jealous exactly once a long, long time ago; he'd forgotten how fucking ugly it is. "Jesus, you're--" he cuts himself off with another sharp sound and then looks Jared straight in the eye. "No. We're not doing this. Get out."

That seems to take some of the wind out of Jared's sails, muscles shifting as his face falls. "What?"

"You heard me. Out."

Jared looks like he wants to argue, lips twisting as his eyes go dark. Jensen counts the seconds in his head -- two, three, four -- and then Jared's turning on his heels, the side of his bag banging into the doorjamb as he leaves.

:::

Sophia Bush shows up at 3:00 the next day. She looks pretty much exactly as Jensen remembers, her face breaking into a smile the second he opens the door.

"Jensen, hi! It's so good to see you again," she says, tiny hand thrust forward.

He's a little surprised to find himself genuinely returning the sentiment.

They talk for awhile in his kitchen, spending a good half hour catching up on the past ten years as he makes coffee. And it's good. It is. He finds himself relaxing into it far sooner than he thought he would.

"Okay, I already talked to Mike so I know you have some misgivings about this whole thing," she says, eventually deciding to get down to business. "I'll try to make it as painless as possible."

"I'm sure you tell that to all the boys," Jensen says.

Grinning, Sophia nods. "I do. It's part of my shtick."

"Does it work?"

"You might be surprised."

She holds true to her word for the first half hour before her questions become gradually more and more invasive. She asks about his family, if his relationship with his parents and siblings has changed. His words are more careful when she gets into asking about his nephews, some of his anxiety clearly showing if Sophia's change in tone is anything to go by.

"They sound like good kids," she says, smiling fondly around her mug of coffee.

"They're great kids. Awesome kids."

He doesn't mention it was Logan's honesty that convinced him go through with the interview, but does acknowledge that he hopes to be a positive influence for them. Sophia smiles and nods, her attention focused on him while the recording device picks up every word.

"Have you ever thought of having children of your own?" she asks at one point and Jensen laughs a little and scratches his neck.

"Yeah, sure," he admits. "I haven't thought about it too seriously, but it's crossed my mind."

"So you want a family."

It's not quite a question and Jensen hesitates on his reply, his mind rewinding to a stilted, awkward conversation with Jared in Atlanta. He shrugs. "Eventually maybe. But it's not... my life is football right now. That's my focus."

"You're not seeing anyone?"

Again, Jensen falters, discomfort pushing an awkward laugh past his lips as he shakes his head. "I don't really want to get into that."

There's the hint of a grin on Sophia's lips and Jensen watches as she scribbles down a note on her e-pad before glancing up at him again. "Is he anyone we know?"

"I don't really want to get into that," Jensen repeats, forcing a small smile.

"Okay, well how about past relationships?" Sophia says, undeterred. "Were you in anything serious or long term before coming out?"

Jensen can't say he hadn't expected the question. But it isn't an easy one to answer and he evades as best he can, bringing up his relationship with LeAnn from college. Sophia nods, her smile warm and knowing. "Nothing since then?"

"No," he says, replying with absolutely no hesitancy despite the lie. It’s a question he’s answered countless times before; the answer is second-nature.

Though her smile doesn’t waver, Sophia still doesn’t appear convinced. “Weren’t you lonely?”

Jensen considers it, thinking back to those years. He’d put up a good front back then, lied as convincingly as any politician. He’d gone out with women, but rarely slept with them and he’d had Chris and Jared and he hadn’t really _let_ himself think about much more. The loneliness was a necessity.

Giving a shrug, Jensen says, “I’ve always kind of been a loner. And I had friends. Guys on the team, you know? It wasn’t bad.”

“And did any of them know?”

“No,” Jensen says. “I never told anyone.”

“No one suspected?”

Jensen pastes on a sly smile. “Guess I’m a good liar.”

“Hmm,” Sophia says, again jotting down a note on her e-pad. “Okay, so tell me about your coming out process. Was there a specific moment where you decided to go through with it? Why did you decide to do it?”

This, at least, is slightly easier ground and Jensen pulls in a breath, muscles relaxing as he starts in. He tells her about retiring from the league, how different it was to be out of that overwhelmingly testosterone-driven environment. He talks more about his family, particularly his parents, once again choosing his words carefully. There hadn’t been one singular moment for him, no major turning point so much as a gradual wearing down before eventually deciding to put it out there and weather the consequences. For better or worse.

Another hour passes in no time and Sophia glances down at her watch before quirking an eyebrow in his direction. "So I could seriously sit here and talk to you all night, but I don't want to hold you up if you have things to do."

"I should start heading to the hotel soon," Jensen admits with a sheepish smile. The magazine is putting her up in the same hotel and he adds, "Need a ride?"

"Actually, yeah. If you don't mind."

:::

"Touchdown Cowboys!" the stadium announcer declares a second before the fireworks in either end zone blast to life and the speaker system spits out the requisite anthem, music nearly drowned out by cheering fans.

It knocks the score up to 28-7 at four minutes into the third quarter, the Cowboys well in the lead. But Jensen isn't celebrating.

Down on the field, Jared is shaky as he gets to his feet, one hand pressed to the crown of his helmet, the other in Kraminsky's tight grip. It'd been a hell of a play, a mad scramble in the backfield as a Steelers' linebacker broke through the offensive line. Jared had dodged not one tackle, but two before he'd gotten the ball off, sending it high and long and straight for the end zone.

And then he'd gotten nailed to the ground not even half a second later by the Steelers' outrageously large nose tackle.

"Get him checked out," Jensen says, though he knows there's no need; after a hit like that, it's league policy.

Jared's able to walk himself to the sidelines and he drops to the bench, carefully tugging off his helmet as Misha drops to a crouch between his knees.

The game continues as Jared's checked for possible injury, the defense marching out after the Steelers' kick return. Jeff comes onto the line moments later, voice low.

"Not lookin' good."

Cursing under his breath, Jensen rubs a hand along the back of his neck. "How not good?"

"Concussion. Misha thinks they should do a CT scan. He's out for the game."

" _Fuck_ ," Jensen says again, hunching forward. He rubs at his forehead and pulls in a slow breath. Says, "Alright, let's get Russell warmed up."

:::

They still win the game, Whitlow even throwing a touchdown in his first drive. The locker room after, however, feels far more tense than celebratory, everyone all too aware of Jared's injury and what it could mean for the rest of their season.

"So what is this, number five? Six?" Jensen asks as he steps into the medical room later.

Jared glances up, clearly unamused. He's still dressed in his football pants and undershirt, legs hanging off the long metal table. "Seven."

"Jesus."

"One more and I get a toaster."

Despite himself, Jensen huffs a laugh. "How you feelin'?"

"Like someone confused the back of my skull for a gong."

"To be fair, it's an easy mistake to make."

Jared lifts a hand to flip him off, but he's clearly fighting a grin.

"Russell did pretty well."

"Yeah," Jared agrees, sitting a little straighter as sucks in a breath.

"You know, Cinci shouldn't give us too much trouble next week. Might be a good idea to sit it out depending on what the CT scan shows."

Jared's lips twitch into a frown at that. "It's not that bad."

"We don't know that yet.”

Jared still looks primed to argue as the door opens and Dr. Edlund steps in. "Mr. Ackles, hello. I wasn't aware you were also in need of medical attention."

"Just checking in on my top player," Jensen says, grinning at the gentle admonishment.

"Not presuming diagnosis, I hope."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good boy," he says, then gives Jensen a nudge to stand in front of Jared, tiny flashlight in hand as he tilts Jared's head back. "I hope you won't be insulted if I ask you to leave," he continues, voice sounding slightly distracted as he starts his examination. "Unless, of course, you're Mr. Padalecki's legal guardian, in which case, by all means..."

"No, yeah," Jensen says quickly, smiling as he takes a step back toward the door. "Sorry, I'll just--"

"Be assured that Coach Kripke will be informed of our findings," he says, pausing his examinations just long enough to peer at Jensen over the top of his glasses. "For now I can tell you Mr. Padalecki shows no signs of immediate body failure. He will most certainly live to see tomorrow."

"Well, that's a relief," Jensen says.

Stepping toward the door, he notices Jared fighting a smile, their gazes catching briefly before Jared tips his head back again and says, "I'll call you later."

Nodding, Jensen feels some of the tension drain away as he slips out the door.

:::

"So what do _you_ think?" Sophia asks, setting down her glass of ice water and picking up her fork.

"I think he'll be out next week regardless of what the tests show. We’re leading our division and Cinci isn't even in our conference so it's not a particularly crucial game. Right now, it makes more sense to let him rest and get healthy for New York."

"And Jared's okay with that?"

"Hell no," Jensen says with a quick laugh. "Jared's a competitor, he wants to be out there. Always. And I can't say I blame him. But... well, I guess that's what coaches are for."

"To tell players when to sit it out?"

"Something like that." Grinning, Sophia taps at the tiny notepad and Jensen arches an eyebrow. "You're writing this down?"

"No, I just got a text reminder about my hair appointment tomorrow," she says and it takes a second for Jensen to realize she's joking, a slow smile curving her lips, cheeks dimpling. "You're still really uncomfortable with this, aren't you?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be, it's fine. Trust me, I've dealt with way worse." Given her history with Chad, Jensen doesn’t argue. "So tell me more about your relationship with Jared," she says, spearing a piece of asparagus.

Jensen blinks. "With Jared?"

"And the other two," Sophia clarifies and Jensen relaxes slightly. "Russell Whitlow and Damon Porter? I assume you spend more time with them than the rest of the team."

"Right, yeah," he says, taking a moment to finish his bite before giving a shrug. "Well, they're all great guys. Great players."

"You're paid to say that."

"Not by you."

Smirking, Sophia gives a faint nod and then continues. "You don't think they resent you at all? Judge you? Treat you differently from the other coaches?"

Jensen frowns a little, taking a moment to really consider the question. "If they do, they're damn discreet," he says. "I know that when they're on the practice field or in my meetings or in the locker room, they listen to me. They respect me. Whatever they think about me off the field isn’t important."

"Do you feel you've had to fight harder for that respect at all?"

"Well, every coach has to earn it in his own way," Jensen says.

Sophia arches an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's really an answer." Jensen shrugs, but doesn't offer anything more and Sophia seems to understand it's the best she's going to get. "So what's your approach then? You can't tell me every player you've ever coached has been totally okay with your lifestyle."

Jensen nods and takes a sip from his wine glass. "I've had some who took issue, yes," he says, thinking immediately of Grady Hamilton. He hasn't been the only one, but he's the most recent and largely at the forefront as Jensen had seen him only hours earlier, on the Pittsburgh sidelines. "Some who were more vocal about their disapproval than others, especially right at the beginning. I mean, there were guys I'd been coaching at OSU for two, three years and they'd had no idea, you know? For them, it wasn't so much the gay thing, but that I'd been lying to them."

"And it's easier now?"

"In some ways, yeah," Jensen says. "It's not a surprise anymore. Guys join the squad already aware; there isn't any awkward unveiling or whatever. But, on the other hand, that knowledge brings with it preconceived opinions. They already know what to think of me, whether or not they're just going to tolerate me or really open up to me. Most of the time it's fine, a lot of guys out there are more liberal-minded than people think, but sometimes it's difficult. It can be hard to work with someone who's decided he hates you before he's even met you."

Sophia's quiet then, just nodding.

Finally, she says, "Is this true of just the players or the coaches, too?"

"It's true of everyone," Jensen admits, his smile a little strained. "Players, coaches, owners, referees, ball boys. Every single person I meet both on and off the field."

"Sounds tough."

Jensen shrugs. "Comes with the territory, I guess."

"The price of honesty?"

"Believe it or not, I get a lot more peace of mind this way," Jensen says, smiling mostly to himself as he cuts off another bite. "Got nothing left to hide, you know? There's a lot to be said for that."

Sophia doesn’t look completely convinced, but she doesn't push it right away, subtly changing the line of questioning to the team once again and how he thinks they’ll finish out the season. Jensen sips at his wine and relaxes into the conversation before Sophia’s questions take another turn into uncomfortable territory.

“You mentioned before how different it was being out of the league,” she says, watching him carefully. “That it factored a lot into your decision to come out publicly. So how is it now being back _in_. How different is it?”

Jensen sets down his glass of wine, feels his shoulders hunch forward as he thinks it over.

“Everything’s different now,” he eventually manages, voice quiet. “Not just. I mean, the fact that I’m out isn’t the only thing that’s changed. It’s been seven years; I’m a coach now, not a player. The mentality of the world is even a little different. It’s not night and day or anything, nothing that obvious, but it’s not the same as I remember. There isn’t this... weight. You know?”

“No more secrets.”

“No,” Jensen says, lips curving in a faint smile. Somehow, it still doesn't feel entirely right, entirely honest. And he isn't sure why.

“What about temptation?”

Jensen’s smile fades a little and he grips the napkin in his lap with one hand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, come on,” Sophia says, lips curving in a grin that looks almost flirtatious. “You’re surrounded by dozens of young, well-built, gorgeous men. It doesn’t get a little tempting? Or frustrating?”

“It’s not like that,” Jensen says, ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut. “These guys are my players. Teammates. There’s nothing sexual about it.”

“So you’re not attracted to anyone on your team? How about in the rest of the league?”

Jensen’s lips twist into a scowl as he wonders just exactly how he's supposed to answer. A ‘no’ could sound too preposterous, but a ‘yes’ only opens the door to a whole new kind of speculation Jensen absolutely refuses to get into.

“Have you ever been attracted to a co-worker?” he says instead, eyebrow arched.

“Yes,” she replies, unfazed.

“You ever act on it?"

Sophia purses her lips, fingertips grazing the lip of her wine glass. "Is this my interview or yours?" When Jensen only grins in reply, Sophia pulls in a breath and says, "Yes," with a hint of challenge in the upward curve of her lips. "When I've been reasonably sure the feeling was mutual."

"Right," Jensen says, unsurprised. "And do you really think _any_ guy in this league would stick his neck out like that?"

"You know, this really doesn't answer my question."

"I'm answering the inevitable follow-up," Jensen says without missing a beat. "Just saving you the time."

"I see," Sophia says against the rim of her glass before she takes a sip and sets it back down. "So I'll take that to mean your previous answer was yes, you are attracted to other men within the league."

Jensen shrugs. "You can take it however you'd like. From what I've been able to tell, that's what journalists do."

He says it with enough of a smile that Sophia clearly takes it as gentle teasing and not bitter commentary. In truth, it's a little of both, though Jensen's not dumb enough to clarify. The conversation shifts a little into slightly easier territory again as they finish dinner and dessert and Sophia picks up the bill, assuring him with a grin that _Details_ will be footing the tab.

"So I guess I'll see you in New York in a couple weeks," she says as they walk through the huge, open area of the hotel, pausing near one of the 30-foot Christmas trees already on display for the impending holiday season.

Jensen sucks in a deep breath, mocking his own nervousness. "Yeah, guess so."

"Well, I for one, am looking forward to it," Sophia says, holding out her tiny hand for a shake. "It was really great talking with you, Jensen."

Fighting a smile, Jensen wraps his fingers around hers. Says, "Have a safe flight."

:::

They get the news on Jared early Monday morning.

Luckily, there's no serious trauma, no fractures or further injury to Jared's neck, back or torso. The bad news is it's still a concussion. Not severe, but Jared's track record leaves definite cause for worry. After a meeting, the coaching staff comes to the conclusion Jensen had predicted the night before: Jared will not dress for the Cincinnati game.

"You'll tell him?" Jeff asks as they're packing up. With the Pittsburgh victory, practice isn't set to begin until Tuesday, but someone will have to get the message out to Jared.

Sighing, Jensen nods. "Yeah. I'll tell him."

They head out into the hall, bags slung over their shoulders and Jeff lingers back a little, voice dropping lower when he says, "So how'd it go?"

"How'd what go?"

"The interview," Jeff replies, lips curving in a faint smirk. "Mike let us know a couple days ago; I've been waiting with bated breath, man."

Jensen huffs a laugh, not sure whether to be amused of vaguely embarrassed. "Well, I'm still alive."

"And Sophia?"

Smirking, Jensen rolls his eyes. "It wasn't bad. Better than I thought it'd be, honestly."

Jeff grins. "So what made you change your mind?"

They turn the corner toward their offices and Jensen shrugs as he says, "My nephew."

"Your nephew?" He can feel the weight of Jeff's gaze still on him, but doesn't offer any further explanation. And Jeff gives a low chuckle. "Huh. Kinda feel like I should send the kid a thank you card or something."

"Get him tickets to a Stars game. He'll love you forever."

"Yeah? I'll keep that in mind," Jeff says, still smiling as they slow to a stop in front of Jensen's office.

Jensen opens his door and flicks on the lights, drops his bag just inside and then arches an eyebrow when he notices Jeff still watching him, his smile warm. Just when Jensen fears Jeff's going to start in on something ridiculous, like how proud he is or how happy, the expression breaks, smile turning bright as he points a finger at Jensen.

"Don't forget to call Jared."

"Yeah, yeah," Jensen replies, rolling his eyes and he makes a show of grabbing the receiver of his desk phone. "Later, Jeff."

:::

On Tuesday, Jensen gets up even earlier to swing by his assigned polling location on his way to work. He's one of the first in line and gets in and out quickly, fulfilling his American duty with very little fuss before showing up at Valley Ranch with twenty minutes to spare. The rest of the day is just like every other, albeit a good deal more stressful than anything they've dealt with so far. With Jared out of the picture, Whitlow has to step up, Porter picking up more snaps right beside him. It's the best Jensen can hope for at the moment, though he can't deny he's still more than a little nervous about Sunday.

It's dark by the time he gets home and he's just turning on the television when his phone rings.

"Did you see?" Matt says, his voice muddled behind a wall of background noise filtering through the phone.

"Dude, where are you?" Jensen replies, laughing a little.

"Huh?"

"Where--" Smirking, he cuts himself off, quickly turning the television to CNN. "Are they still counting?"

"It's Schweitzer," Matt says just as the projected numbers pop up onto the screen. The newscaster makes it clear they're still counting most of the west coast ballots, but baring a major surprise in California, the winner looks clear. "We won! Jensen, we _won_!"

He can't help but smile at Matt's excitement, reminded of every football victory he's ever enjoyed, both as a player and a coach. It's not the same thing, not by a long stretch. This is the future of their country, of the _world_ , not just a game. Be he can't quite help thinking he'd probably be more excited by a Super Bowl win. Politics has never really been his forte.

"I'm gonna-- hey, Jensen, I'm gonna go," Matt continues, still all but screaming to be heard over the noise. "I'll call you later, okay?"

Laughing, Jensen nods to himself. Says, "Later, man. Have fun over there."

He stays up long enough to hear the official announcement of their new President-elect, idly wondering how the news will effect practice for the rest of the week. It will doubtlessly be a hot topic the following day, but Jensen hopes it isn't too much of a distraction.

:::

Though he's forbidden from attending any field practice for the week, Jared still shows up for the meetings, offering input and suggestions for Whitlow and Porter as they gear up for Sunday's game and by Saturday's walk-through, Jensen's feeling slightly more confident in the team's chances. And Jared has at least stopped pouting, having resigned himself to his fate for the week. He's taken on something of a coaching role, eager to offer advice and tips to the two other QBs between plays. It'd probably come off a little condescending or controlling from anyone else, but Jared's clearly just trying to help in any way he can. Jensen finds it bizarrely endearing.

"So we're doing drinks tomorrow night," Jared says after flagging Jensen down in the parking lot after practice.

"Who's we?" Jensen asks, one eyebrow arched.

"You and me." It's the first Jensen's heard of it and he figures his face must show as much as Jared's lips twitch into a bright smile. "You've flaked out on me, like, five times already, man. I'm not letting you say no this time."

"I'm actually scheduled to get my hair done," Jensen says, biting back a grin as Jared laughs.

"Seriously," Jared says, though his smile doesn't waver. "You, me, Sunday night. Win or lose."

Jensen doesn't answer right away. It's a bad idea, he _knows_ it's a bad idea. Even if Jared's offering the invitation solely in friendship, Jensen's aware he can't trust himself when it comes to Jared and alcohol. Sometimes isn't even sure if he wants to.

"It's on me," Jared says, continuing to watch Jensen carefully. "Still owe you for Denver, right? C'mon, man, let me make good on it."

It's not the words so much or even the quiet way Jared says them, but the look that goes with it. He can see Jared's smile wavering, struggling to hold in place, brows knit above pleading eyes. It's a fucking puppydog look if Jensen's ever seen one. Goddamnit.

"Fine, yeah," he says, giving a soft laugh as he shakes his head. "Okay."

Jared's smile then is downright blinding.

:::

Seven minutes into the second quarter, Whitlow takes a hit to his left side. It's a legal move, the defender inadvertently pushed into him by the offensive tackle and Russell goes down with one leg twisted up underneath, knee hitting turf before the rest of his body follows. Even from up in the booth, it doesn't look good.

"No, no, no," Jensen breathes, cradling his face in his hands as he watches the trainers jog onto the field. "This isn't happening. Someone tell me this isn't happening."

The officials call an injury time out while the trainers check on Whitlow, moving him gingerly to a sitting position before very, very carefully helping him to his feet and off the field. Pain is clearly written all over Russell's face and he barely puts any weight on his injured leg before being deposited on the bench. Behind him, Porter's throwing spirals into the practice net to warm up his arm. It's still only third down.

"Whitlow's out," Jeff says moments later, relaying the obvious.

Jensen presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket and releases a heavy breath, takes a few seconds to pull himself together. The score is 10-7, the Cowboys already down by three points. It's third-and-seven on their own 38-yard line. "Okay," he says then, blinking as he sits up straight. "Okay. Fuck. Let's go."

Less than a minute later, Porter straps on his helmet and jogs onto the field. Jensen flips the switch on the communication link and starts talking, keeping his voice low and fast, giving the kid no room to start panicking as he rattles off the play. It's a pass route to Jake up the middle that gets thrown a little too low, the incomplete effectively ending the drive.

"It's fine, it's fine," Jensen assures Porter as the kid heads to the sidelines. "That was your warm-up, man. No biggie. Get yourself some water, find Jeff, get your head in the game and come back swingin', alright? You got this."

The Bengals score on their next drive, lengthening the lead to ten points before it's time for Porter and the offense to take the field once more.

"He's good," Jeff tells him. "Probably scared shitless, but he's doing a good job of hiding it. Just keep him calm, Jensen. He'll be fine."

"Alright, man," Jensen says, focused entirely on his quarterback. "Jeff got you up to speed? Let's do this. Seven-point Vessel Sulpher Cemetary Trigger Blue."

It's an easy slant route, one Porter's executed countless times in practice and Jensen's hoping pure muscle memory will win out if nothing else. Porter lines up behind Miller at center and makes the call, voice carrying loud and clear before he drops back with the snap. It's a quick play, all footwork and timing, the pass landing straight into the hands of Derrick Brown for a gain of seven.

"Yes!" Jensen cheers before he can stop himself, the sound melting into laughter. "Yes. _Perfect._ That was beautiful, Damon. Fuckin' beautiful. Keep it up."

And keep it up he does, slowly marching the offense down the field until, with only thirty seconds remaining in the half, he connects with Aldis in the end zone on a twenty yard pass. The crowd goes nuts, cheers mixing in with the blaring music and Jensen pumps a fist in the air, grinning from ear to ear.

Porter goes on to score two more touchdowns in the second half, including a thirty-yard completion to Aldis in the last minute and a half that puts them in the lead by four points. Though the Bengals try their hardest to rally back, the Cowboys defense holds strong and the game ends with a final score of 28-23.

The field breaks into its typical chaos as the last seconds tick away, the team swarming in from all sides on Porter, all but assaulting him in their celebration.

"Well, this one's gonna make the highlight reels," Charles says, dropping his headset as he stretches his back.

Jensen lets out a rough laugh and drags a hand over his face. Says, "Fuck, I need a drink."

:::

After congratulating Porter and checking in on Whitlow, Jensen's free to leave the stadium. Jared's waiting for him when he exits the training room, leaning against a cement wall and staring blankly down the tunnel, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"So," he asks the second he sees Jensen. "What's the news?"

Jensen lets out a breath as Jared falls into step beside him and they head toward one of the stadium's many freight elevators. "Likely ACL tear," he says, voice low. "They'll do an MRI tomorrow to see how bad, but he'll probably be out for the rest of the season. How's your head?"

"Hard as ever."

"Not nearly hard enough."

"I'm good for next week. Hell, I was good for _this_ week."

"Mmm," Jensen says, dismissing Jared's petulant tone without further comment. "Farish is already looking around for a replacement. There's a guy on the Jets practice squad who looks promising."

Jared nods, keeping quiet for a long moment as they approach the elevator. He presses the call button and then steps back, hands shoved into his pockets. "Porter looked good out there," he says and Jensen glances over briefly.

"He did."

"Had me worried for a minute."

"Not me," Jensen fibs with a slight grin.

There's a dwindling line of cabs still ferrying away the few remaining fans and Jensen quickly grabs one while Jared gets called over to sign autographs and pose for pictures.

"God, you fuckin' love that, don't you?" Jensen says, grinning when Jared finally climbs in a good ten minutes later.

"Hey, I only got a few years left in me," Jared says, flashing a grin as he shuts the door. "Gotta enjoy it while it lasts." He turns his attention to the taxi driver then, nearly hugging the back of the passenger seat as he tries to scoot closer. "Hey man, you know where McDowell's is? Off LBJ?"

Nodding, the cabbie, puts the car into drive and Jensen huffs a laugh.

"McDowell's? Seriously?"

Resting back in his seat, Jared flashes a smile. "I love that place."

"I haven't been there in years." More like a decade, though he doesn't say as much. He's fairly sure he doesn't have to.

"It hasn't changed a whole lot," Jared promises. "Herb's still there. I think they invested in some new flooring a couple years back, but the drinks are still shitty."

Grinning wide, Jensen takes a deep breath. "Sounds perfect."

The bar's busier than Jensen would've expected for a Sunday night, music loud and all three pool tables in use. Herb is apparently off for the night and Jared gets them a table near the back, one large hand swiping off a mess of empty peanut shells.

"Know what you want?" he asks.

"Let's go with a Corona to start," Jensen says and Jared grins before heading to the bar.

Jensen's takes the few solitary minutes to reacquaint himself with his old hang-out. Jared hadn't lied; it's almost exactly how he remembers, down to the ancient singing bass fish on the wall and the Patsy Cline music filtering through the speakers, not to mention the general clientele. There are more than a few cowboy hats visible in the crowd and two beefy guys with impressive tattoos are engaged in a game of pool at the nearest table.

"Alright, one Corona to start you off," Jared says, dropping a bottle onto the table, followed quickly by another just like it. "And one for when you finish."

"Oh, baby, you treat me so good," Jensen says, grinning wide as he grabs his beer.

"Damn straight," Jared replies, taking a long pull of his own and settling into the opposite seat.

They drink in easy, companionable silence for awhile before Jensen breaks it with a quiet breath, grinning as he looks over at Jared. "You still really come here?"

"Yep," Jared says. "Not a whole lot. Once or twice a year, maybe."

Jensen grins slightly, head tipping to the side. "Last time we were here, you started a fight."

"I did not," Jared says, indignant even through a smile. "I tried to _finish_ it, but I did not start it."

"Herb kicked us out," Jensen says, tapping the pad of his finger against the rim of his bottle. "I had to like, pull you out the goddamn door. Fuckin' redneck."

Jared laughs then, low and quiet, dark hair dropping over his eyes as he shakes his head.

"Surprised they let you back in."

"Yeah well, it's amazing what they'll let you do when you're the quarterback for America's Team," Jared says, the tilt of his lips implying that he's at least partially joking. Jensen knows better, though. He'd been that guy once upon a time. Not quite of Jared's stature, of course, but he'd gotten a taste. He knows the life.

It's still funny to him sometimes to realize how much he really doesn't miss it.

"Imagine what they'll do when you win a Super Bowl."

"You mean aside from finally get off my back for losing the first two?"

Chuckling, Jensen holds up his bottle in a faint salute before taking another sip. "You'll get there, man," he says after swallowing it down. "Don't worry."

As Jared's coach, he's almost obligated to say as much. But he means it, too. If not this year then maybe the next. Jared still has the drive for it, the single-minded, stubborn determination to keep going until he gets there. His only hurdle might be his age and propensity for head injuries.

But hell, if Brett Favre could do it.

And Jared's apparently on the same page, a cocky grin curving his lips as he says, "Who says I'm worryin'?"

Their conversation continues, easy and uncomplicated as though the last few weeks hadn't even happened. They fill up on beer and jalapeño fries and it isn't long before the other patrons start catching onto Jared's presence. They both do their best to ignore the stares. Or at least Jensen does; Jared actually appears largely oblivious until a leggy blonde sidles up close to their table and all but shoves her tits under Jared's chin.

"Whoa, hey," Jared says, laughing as he pulls away a little, smile loose and genuine. "Hi there."

"Hi," the blonde replies, clearly drunk as she unabashedly uses Jared's shoulder to steady herself. "I'm Tiffany."

"I'm Jared."

Giggling, Tiffany slides her hand to the back of Jared's neck. "I know," she says, bumping her hip against him. "I'm a really big fan. Like, _really_ big."

Jensen arches an eyebrow over his bottle, unsure whether to be amused or vaguely concerned while ignoring the other feeling completely, the one making his stomach clench tight and blood run hot. Jared only grins in response before turning his attention back to Tiffany.

"Are you now?" Jared says, the alcohol in his system making his drawl more pronounced. "So what'd you think of today's game?"

"Oh, it was _amazing_ ," Tiffany says. "You're just... you're incredible. I love watching you play."

Jensen has to nearly physically restrain himself from letting out a snort at that and Jared shoots him a look, one that screams of amusement as he says, "Really? What was your favorite part?"

Tiffany seems to falter a little then, her gaze flicking briefly over to Jensen as though looking for some assistance. Jensen just gives her a tight-lipped grin.

"The, uh. That touchdown was great," she says and Jensen has to give her credit for her ability to lie on the spot. "That one to, uh... I can't remember his name. He's really good, too."

Jared seems to break then, letting out a low, warm chuckle as he reaches up to gently pull her hand away from his neck. "I actually didn't play today, darlin'," he tells her, sounding damn near apologetic as he taps his temple with one finger. "Concussion."

"Oh," Tiffany says. She at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

"You're right, though; it was a pretty amazing game."

Tiffany glances down at her hand, Jared's fingers still wrapped around hers and gives a shaky smile. "Sorry, I'm kinda drunk," she admits, words melting into a airy laugh as she leans in closer. "And you're really, _really_ hot. Like, even hotter in person."

Once again, Jared cuts a glance at Jensen, still smiling though it looks a tiny bit more strained.

"Do you wanna maybe..." Tiffany says, her words trailing off as she gives Jared's hand a tug and glances beyond his shoulder to the back door. She leans in closer, her lips practically brushing Jared's ear. Jensen can't make out what she's saying, but he keeps his eyes on Jared, attempting to read his expression.

And Jared doesn't look away from him, not once, his gaze locked on Jensen's, eyes dark and unreadable as he listens.

Finally, Tiffany pulls away, still gripping Jared's hand tightly as she sways. "So?"

Jared's eyes stay on Jensen for a beat longer before he blinks and looks back to Tiffany. "It's tempting," he tells her, the slight catch of his voice the only indication that he's in any way affected, "but I think I'm gonna have to decline."

"But--"

"I'm sorry," Jared says and the small, apologetic smile on his lips looks startlingly genuine. "See, I'm here with my coach and I kinda wanna keep my job."

Tiffany turns her attention to Jensen again, eying him intently for a long moment before her lips twist into another slow grin. "He can come."

Jensen nearly chokes on his next swallow, heat rising to his cheeks as he coughs out a laugh.

"You alright there, Coach?" Jared says, smirking and Jensen does his best to glare at him in return.

"Fuck you."

"It's way more fun if you fuck me, actually," Tiffany says, eyes still on Jensen. She's practically sitting in Jared's lap now and has Jared's hand close to her chest, like she might soon shove it right down the front of her shirt. Her smile is all heated promise that would probably have more of an affect if Jensen was even remotely attracted to her.

The look Jared's giving him is alarmingly similar, but with just a hint of something warmer underneath. Familiar and entirely non-threatening. Something that makes it clear it's all a joke, no real intent under the façade.

"How 'bout it, Ackles?" Jared asks with a ridiculous eyebrow waggle. "You up for it?"

Jensen arches an eyebrow then leans back in his chair, makes a show of looking down at his own crotch before shaking of his head. "Apparently not."

"Oh, right," Jared says, clearly fighting a smile as he lets out a heavy sigh and turns to Tiffany again. "Sorry. He's gay." Laughing, Tiffany gives him a playful shove and Jared says, "No, really, he is," as he gently disentangles his fingers from her grip.

It takes another good second and a half for Tiffany to realize he's not joking. She blinks at him. "Wait... _you're_ the gay coach?"

Jensen shrugs, the moniker somehow less annoying after a few drinks. "The one and only. Apparently."

"Wow," Tiffany says. "I had no idea you were so goddamn gorgeous. Shit."

Barking a laugh, Jensen looks to Jared. "You know, I think we should go."

Jared nods, grinning wide as he rests his hand against Tiffany's side and gets to his feet. "Thanks again for the offer," he tells her before letting her go, pausing a second to make sure she can actually hold herself upright before sliding away.

Jensen gives her one last, strained smile before finishing off his drink and heading for the door, Jared right at his heels.

"I hate you so much," he says once they're outside and Jared nearly buckles over with laughter.

"God, that was _awesome_. Your _face_."

"You're unhinged."

"She was totally into it, man. Coulda had ourselves a good ol' time."

"And a good ol' venereal disease," Jensen agrees, fighting a smirk as he pulls his phone out to call a taxi. He holds it to his ear as it rings and adds, "I'm sure she's still waiting in there if that's what you want. Don't have to stick around here with me, I can find my own way home."

He's partly joking and partly not and partly hoping, for reasons he absolutely is not examining, that Jared will tell him to shut the hell up.

Jared glances over to the closed door, laughter falling away, though his smile doesn't waver. He looks like he's maybe considering the offer for all of two seconds before looking to Jensen again and shrugging.

"Not my type," he says, voice quieter just as the taxi cab dispatcher picks up, voice crackling in Jensen's ear.

"Eagle Cab, how can I help you?"


	9. Chapter 9

Jensen meets the new guy, Warren Maryland, on Monday afternoon. There's no team practice scheduled for the day, but Kripke wants the coaches to at least get a feel for the guy before they start working on the game plan. He's a fourth-year initially drafted by the Titans who's made a living of jumping from team to team for the past few years. He greets each of them with a warm smile and firm handshake, thanking them more than once for the opportunity.

"Seems like a good kid," Jeff says later and Jensen sees no reason to argue.

Practice resumes as normal on Tuesday morning and, with Jared officially back in the fold, there's an almost palpable sense of relief amongst the whole team, immediately evident both in the meeting rooms and on the field. With Whitlow out, Porter slides up a rung in the depth chart and Maryland accepts his role at #3 QB without question, slipping into the routine like a pro. The guy has a whole new playbook to try to memorize in less than five days so Jensen takes it a little easy on him in the beginning, focusing his questions on the other two during meetings as they prepare for the Giants game.

"The new guy's kinda quiet," Jared says during a break in field work on Thursday. "Think he's hiding somethin'?

Due to rain they're using the indoor facility, ninety-plus men all crammed into what looks like a huge white tent, voices echoing off the flimsy walls. Jensen snorts a laugh as he tucks his notepad under his arm.

"I'm serious," Jared continues, his tone clearly indicating he's anything but. "He could be a terrorist. Or a vampire. Or an undercover cop working for the league."

"Don't you have drills you should be running?"

"Whitfield stole all my receivers," Jared says before tipping his head back for a sip of his water bottle. "Oh, maybe he has Vegas ties! Like, he quietly sneaks onto teams so he can get an inside scoop and then uses it all to gain his fortune in gambling. I bet that's it. He looks way more like a compulsive gambler than a cop."

"If he's undercover, wouldn't that be an asset? To not actually--" Jensen cuts himself off there, lips pursing as Jared's face breaks into an even wider smile. "Goddamnit, Padalecki."

"Admit it, I make your life awesome."

"If by 'awesome' you mean 'endlessly tiring."

"By 'awesome' I mean you can't bear to imagine your life without me in it."

The last half of Jared's statement is all but inaudible thanks to the loud honk of Kripke's foghorn calling them all to attention. Which is just about perfect timing as far as Jensen's concerned and, throwing Jared a grin, he starts heading towards mid-field, thwacking Jared's hip with the back of his notepad as he passes.

:::

Their plane lands in New York in the early afternoon and Jensen's barely dropped his bag onto his hotel room floor before Sophia's calling him from the lobby.

"Sorry, we're a little early," she tells him. "But I thought we'd stop somewhere on the way and pick up some coffee. _Good_ coffee, I mean. Not that shit they try passing off as coffee at every shoot I've ever been to."

It's possible Jensen spent the entire three and a half hour flight trying not to stress out over the impending photo shoot. It's also possible the promise of coffee makes the whole ordeal suddenly seem a lot more bearable.

"I, uhm. Yeah, just let me get cleaned up. I smell like airplane."

"Jensen, I promise you they haven't refined the technology enabling scent to translate to film."

"Well, I _look_ like I smell like airplane."

Sophia's sigh comes through loud and clear, but her voice still sounds more fond than annoyed. "That's why we have make-up artists and digital editing, sweetie. We can make Jason Segal look like Zac Efron."

"Look, just let me at least take a piss first."

"Fine," Sophia replies. "But make it fast."

The shoot is literally in the backyard of someone's house in Queens. It's not a particularly large yard, at least not by Texas standards, and most of it is taken up by two huge, nearly bare trees, the ground littered in piles of fallen leaves. There's a tall, wooden privacy fence around the entire perimeter along with another area completely sanctioned off by wooden slats and dark curtains, a rack of clothing stationed just beside it.

Sophia introduces him to the photographer, Kevin, and stays the whole time, offering suggestions and criticisms and teasing remarks where necessary. It's oddly comforting.

And it's really not so bad. None of the clothes are too hideous and the make-up lady goes easy on him when he makes it clear just how uncomfortable he is. He still feels completely ridiculous through most of it, attempting to pose as the photographer directs him like some kind of actor or fashion model.

"Okay, now try lying down," Kevin instructs him, scooting back to give Jensen more room.

Frowning, Jensen hesitates for a second. He's only in a t-shirt and jeans and, while he's not exactly freezing, the idea of laying down in a bed of sodden leaves sounds wholly unappealing.

Apparently sensing his discomfort, Kevin gives him a quick, reassuring smile. "Just for a few minutes. If it gets too cold, let me know."

Jensen still isn't quite convinced, but he does as asked, situating himself into the mound of leaves, legs stretched out and hands on his stomach. Head cocked to one side. He squints. "Now what?"

"Just relax," Kevin tells him, shifting his position for a different angle, camera clicking audibly. "Close your eyes and breathe. Think of something comforting."

"I bet I have some Enya on my iPod if that would help," Sophia says and Jensen grins faintly as Kevin gets another shot.

"Good one," Kevin says. "Keep your eyes closed. Play dead."

Jensen can't help a snort at that. "What am I, a possum?"

"You look seriously hot," Sophia says, grin evident in her tone. "I realize that's an incredibly unprofessional thing for me to say and feel free to complain to my editor, but I really just can't keep it quiet any longer."

He laughs again, one eye squinting open and neck craning to look over at her. "You don't think these leaves make my ass look big?"

"Hard to tell. Show me your ass and I'll let you know."

"Alright, no more smiling," Kevin cuts in then, amused but also clearly meaning business and Jensen does his best to school his expression.

The whole thing takes about three hours and, by the end of it, Jensen's starving and more than ready to be done. He rides back to the hotel with Sophia, though she doesn't go in with him, just says her goodbyes at the door.

"You sure you don't wanna grab some dinner?" he asks and she lets out a soft laugh and shakes her head.

"I'd love to, but I've got plans. Hit me up the next time you're here, though. I'd love to see you."

"I will," he tells her. And he means it.

Her grin brightens then, cheeks dimpling as she holds out her hand to his. Jensen glances down at it, lips twitching before he wraps his fingers around hers and then tugs her into a loose hug. "Promise you won't make me look like a raging asshole?" he asks her, voice low and teasing.

Laughing, Sophia leans into him. "So you want me to lie."

"Absolutely."

She pulls back with a smile and gives his side a light pat. "Thanks for doing this, Jensen," she says, her voice quieter. "I know it wasn't any easy thing for you."

He doesn't say how he'd imagined worse or how he's maybe even a little glad he did it, but just gives her a warm smile instead. If Sophia's answering smile is anything to go by, he thinks maybe she gets it.

"Good luck tomorrow," she says with a wink before sliding into the back seat. Jensen lifts his hand in a half-assed salute as she shuts the door and only turns to head back inside when the car pulls out onto the street.

:::

Despite getting sacked three times in the first half alone, Jared still manages a hell of a game against the Giants. He completes twenty-five of his thirty-two pass attempts for 310 yards, three touchdowns and only one interception. And he accomplishes most of it while practically running for his life in the backfield, the O-line all but collapsing under the force of Todd Downey and the rest of the Giants defense.

In Jensen's opinion, it's one of Jared's best career performances. He's a physical guy, can take hits with the best of them, but it's been awhile since Jensen's seen a quarterback take a beating like this one and not only come out standing, but actually win the game on top of it.

Unsurprisingly, Jared still ends up in the training room afterward, Misha gingerly helping him peel off his shoulder pads and undershirt, his face pinched in a grimace. There's already a purpling bruise low on his side and Misha's fingers gently press the surrounding area, making Jared hiss softly.

"You look fine, you big baby," Jensen says, smiling faintly from a few feet away.

Jared flips him off.

"Nothing feels broken," Misha confirms, voice low as he continues gently feeling along Jared's ribs and stomach. "Breathe in slow."

Jensen can see Jared has some difficulty doing so, both hands balled into fists and shoulders drawn tight as he inhales.

"Good," Misha says, one hand resting on Jared's back as he glances up again. "Pain level still the same? We at 'Jesus Christ, My Penis Is On Fire' or just somewhere around 'Oh God, Oh God, Please Kill Me Now'?"

Jared tries for a laugh, though it's immediately cut short by another wince of pain, voice tight as he replies, "More like 'I'd Sell My Soul For Some Vicodin'."

"That low? Shit, you are a big baby."

"Fuck you," Jared huffs, lips twisted.

Stepping back, Misha grabs his medical tablet and starts typing as he says, "Well, despite the truly stunning mural forming on your lower ribs, I think you're okay. But we'll take some x-rays real quick just to be sure. Coach, you wanna stay and hold his hand?"

"Nah, I'm just here for the show," Jensen says.

Jared scowls. "You need a better hobby."

Throwing Jared a grin, Jensen turns to head for the door. "I'm gonna see if I can find Jeff and fill him in before I head to the hotel. Call me with the results, will you?"

"You my mother now?"

"Might as well be."

"If I'm not jacked up on pain pills, I'll try to remember."

"And if I don't hear anything by midnight, I'll break down your door."

"Dramatic," Jared grumbles, pausing long enough to gingerly lay back onto the table as Misha drapes the heavy apron over his hips. "You know, they have these awesome things now called key-cards. They actually open doors with minimal physical effort; it's incredible."

"Fascinating."

"I hear nearly every hotel in the country uses them these days."

Rolling his eyes, Jensen opens the door and straddles the threshold Says, "Seriously, Jay. Call me."

Jared only lifts one arm then, waving him off as Misha carefully twists him into position and Jensen, still fighting a grin, finally leaves.

:::

"You didn't call," Jensen says as Jared files in behind him to board the bus for JFK.

Jared has on a pair of sunglasses and he's carrying his bag instead of shouldering it. "I was comatose," he murmurs, the words nearly lost against the rim of his coffee cup.

"I was worried sick."

"Liar."

"Okay, I was mildly concerned," Jensen replies with a faint grin. "So no breaks?"

"No breaks. No internal bleeding. No collapsed lung, though _fuck_ if it doesn't feel like it."

"Solution?"

"To keep popping Vicodin like Skittles and move as little as possible."

"Right," Jensen says, pulling in a slow breath. "Right, yeah. That shouldn't be any problem at all."

Jared gives him a weak smile and Jensen drops the subject. It's not even 7:00 when they get to the airport and the whole team boards the plane in near silence, like a herd of walking dead. The flight back is just as quiet and Jensen spends the vast majority of it unconscious, waking only a few times with an ache in his neck and back stiff. He catches Jared staring at him once, his head turned in Jensen's direction and body so still that at first, Jensen thinks he's sleeping, too. At least until their eyes meet. Jared gives a slow blink, but doesn't look away, expression unchanging.

Jensen has no idea how long they just sit there staring at each other, not saying a word. Jared's eyes give away nothing, but Jensen's too tired to question it, feels only a warm kind of comfort in the gaze before sleep takes him over once more.

When they land at DFW, Kripke lays down the plan, informing everyone to be at Valley Ranch at 2:00 for the team meeting. Despite their victory and the cross-country flight, practice is still on. Their next game is scheduled for Thursday, Thanksgiving Day; there's simply no room to relax.

Jensen has just enough time to drop his stuff off at home and grab a shower. He picks up some Whataburger on the way back to Valley Ranch and eats it in the coaches meeting, listening intently to the injury updates and tentative plan for the Seahawks game.

"I don't want Jared in pads this week," Jensen says around a fry. "And we should up Porter's practice snaps just in case something happens."

Kripke nods, scribbling some note or other in his pad. "Kid sure took a beating yesterday."

"Think there's still a Sasquatch-shaped imprint on the 40-yard line back there," Jim agrees, voice gruff. That elicits a quiet round of laughter, but Jensen can only manage a small smile.

"X-rays were negative, but we're gonna need to take extra precautions going into December."

Again, Kripke nods, lips twitching into a faint smile as he glances over. "Hey, no need to convince me. Let's keep him out of pads until Wednesday at the earliest. We'll reassess then."

Practice goes exactly as planned, Jared kept out of pads until Wednesday afternoon and Porter fielding a higher percentage of snaps than normal. It's one of their more brutal weeks, five days worth of work crammed into just three, meetings running later and field work more intense in an effort to prepare as best they can.

There's something about the Thanksgiving game that sets it apart from all the others, though. Something that makes all the work more than worth it. Jensen remembers it both from being a player and from being a fan, just a kid in Richardson watching the game on television with his dad and brother and uncles. It's the Cowboys' ultimate home game and the one day in the entire regular season where even the people who don't like football still find themselves watching.

It's the one game of the year that should be theirs to win.

:::

And they do win it. Easily.

So easily, in fact, it's almost boring. Except for how every time Jared takes even the softest hit or gracelessly falls to the turf, Jensen's gut tightens. But Jared always gets back up again, dusts himself off with only the slightest indication he's in any kind of pain and carries on. He throws for 270 yards and two touchdowns. No fumbles or interceptions. Carter nails a couple field goals and the defense pretty much takes care of the rest, the final score is a truly embarrassing 34-3.

With the game out of the way, the team is free to spend the rest of the holiday with their families and Jensen shows up at his brother's house at noon on Friday with a five pound sack of potatoes in one hand, two six-packs in the other and a block of butter under his arm.

Allie informs him that her parents have already arrived and his are on the way before grabbing her youngest son by the shoulder and saying, "Brodie, why don't you help your uncle clean up the potatoes, huh?"

"Fine," Brodies says and Jensen can't help but laugh at the kid's complete lack of enthusiasm.

"Hey, you wanna soften the butter for me?" Jensen asks.

Brodie blinks at him suspiciously. "How do I do that?"

Grinning, Jensen grabs a large plastic Ziplock out of the drawer and leads Brodie to a chair. He lifts up the paisley seat cushion and drops the butter into the plastic bag, zipping it tight. Then places the butter onto the finished wood and says, "Take a seat."

Brodie looks at the butter and then up at Jensen, confusion rippling into gleeful amusement before he climbs up and drops his tiny butt down on top of it. "Dude, it's cold!"

"Stay there just like that," Jensen says, smirking at the way Brodie squirms.

Josh steps into the kitchen then, his expression shifting from open greeting to bewilderment as he looks at his son. "What the hell're you doin' to my kid?"

"I'm melting the butter," Brodie says, grinning bright.

"Softening it," Jensen corrects him.

"Oh, that's just indecent," Josh mutters, giving Jensen a quick shove with his elbow as he heads to the fridge.

Grinning, Jensen shoves him back. "Grab me one, will you."

"Grab you one what? Juice box? Soda? Weird fruity yogurt thing?"

Jensen fights a grin, but doesn't answer and two seconds later, his brother drops a Sam Adam's on the counter and claps a hand to his back before he heads out of the kitchen, pausing only to tell Brodie not to fart on the butter.

His parents show up while Jensen's elbow-deep in potatoes. It's the largest batch he's ever made and he stops long enough to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand and hold his arms out for the requisite hugs. The kitchen is chaos for a few minutes, loud voices washing over each other as everyone clamors to get in their _hellos_ and _how are yous_ and _Wow, that smells delicious_. It gets even louder moments later when an unexpected face pops in, smile bright and hair much shorter than Jensen remembers.

"Aunt Mack!"

"Heya, squirt," Mackenzie laughs, wrapping an arm around Brodie as he plasters himself to her side.

Jensen's still just standing there with potato on his hands, staring dumbly. He hasn't seen his sister since her wedding. She and Max have been living in San Diego and, as far as Jensen's been aware, they weren't planning to make it down for the holiday. Clearly, those plans changed somewhere along the line. She looks largely the same aside from one very noticeable difference.

"Surprise," she says, laughing a little into the stunned silence before Brodie voices what they're all thinking.

"Whoa. You're pregnant."

Allie practically squeals, launching forward to grab Mackenzie around the neck while Jensen's parents linger on the fringes, their smiles somewhere between smug and fond.

"Where's Max-a-million?" Josh asks when she works her way over to give him a hug.

"Trying to find a place to park. Your street is insane right now."

"Damn. I thought maybe he was hiding from me for knocking up my little sister."

Mack grins and gives his cheek a pat. "That, too."

She pauses for a second when she gets to Jensen and he lets himself take a good look at her, the short cut of her hair and the clear swell of her belly. She's beaming and beautiful and Jensen feels an ache low in his gut, a weird mix of happiness and guilt. He feels like he should've known somehow. Should have called, should have asked, shouldn't have spent the past three and a half years oblivious on the other side of the country.

Her smile breaks then, choking off into a quiet laugh as she wraps her arms around his neck. "God, it's good to see you," she whispers and Jensen curls his arms around her, chin resting on the top of her head.

"I'm gonna get potato in your hair," he says, warm and fond.

"Do and I'll kill you."

She doesn't let go for another long moment and when she pulls back, Jensen swipes her cheek with one finger and laughs when she gives him a shove in return.

Dinner is ready by 3:00 and they all cram themselves around Josh and Allie's dining room table. It's a tight fit, but no one complains, everyone too busy stuffing their faces to care about bumping elbows. There are at least two conversations going simultaneously through the course of the meal at any one time and as Jensen's sitting right in the middle, he finds himself catching bits and pieces of every single one. He doesn't join in very often, content to just listen and absorb. Take it all in.

It's the first Thanksgiving dinner he's spent with his family in over a decade; the first time they've all been in the same room since he retired, since he came out, since he returned to Dallas. It's more than a little overwhelming.

Later, after everyone has sufficiently stuffed themselves on turkey, ham and potatoes, he and his brother handle the clean-up. The rest of the family is in the other room watching some animated car movie Brodie's been obsessing over for the past few months, though half of them are talking and the other half appear to be in a food-induced coma.

Josh walks in with a pile of serving dishes in his arms and deposits them on the counter before methodically dispensing the contents of each into little Tupperware containers while Jensen works at filling the dishwasher.

They're both quiet for the most part, a comfortable silence settling before Josh says, "You know, you could've brought someone."

Jensen stills for a second, glancing back at his brother with a slight frown.

"What?" Josh asks, arching an eyebrow. "I know you're not-- look, Mom and Dad will have to get used to it at some point, right? You can't just show up alone to every single family event for the rest of your life."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Jensen says, halfway between amused and weirdly irritated.

"You've got someone, right?"

Jensen keeps his eyes lowered, focused on the task at hand before finally answering with a shake of his head. "Kinda busy, you know? Not really much time for a relationship."

Josh only huffs a laugh. "You are such a shitty liar. What about Jared?"

The name sends a strange flash of panic down Jensen's spine and he looks over, needing to see the expression on his brother's face to assess whether or not he's joking. Josh meets the look head-on as he snaps a lid onto the container of sliced ham.

"It's him, isn't it? He's the guy?"

"What? No, he's not-- he's a _player_ , Josh." He looks away as he says it, fights the heat threatening to curl its way up his neck as he rinses off another dish.

"So? You think I really give a shit if you're sticking it to a player? It's not like I'm gonna tell anyone."

"Josh, listen to me," Jensen says then, the fluttering panic in his gut making his voice tight as he turns to face his brother. "I am not seeing anyone. Okay? If I was, I would tell you."

It's not a lie, but he knows it's not entirely the truth either. Though he and Matt haven't really talked about it, Jensen's already told Danneel and Jared about him. And Matt's even spending the holiday in town with his own family. He's only a few miles away.

But Jensen's still sticking with his claim and he can't even say why.

Josh eyes him for another moment longer and then finally shrugs, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, whatever."

They finish up the dishes in heavy silence, Jensen taking a few minutes to clean off the bigger pieces as Josh gives the table one final sweep, making sure they haven't left anything behind. When he comes back in, Jensen's wiping his hands dry and reaching for his beer and Josh steps up beside him, arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay, look," he says, voice quiet and Jensen tenses immediately. "You don't have to tell me. It's not my business, I get that." He pauses a second to lick his lips and Jensen glances over, eying him carefully. Josh smiles a little, just a bare flicker at the corner of his mouth as he meets Jensen's gaze with a sideways glance. "I just don't want you feelin' like you have to hide it, you know? That's all. You've done that enough already."

It's about the most sincere Jensen's ever seen his brother and he finds himself slowly returning the smile, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing.

"C'mon," Josh says, breaking the moment with a hard press of his elbow into Jensen's arm before he pulls himself away from the counter. "Let's go play some Uno."

:::

"I am finally completely free of familial duties," Matt tells him over the phone on Sunday. "And my flight doesn't leave until 10:00 tomorrow morning. Please tell me you know just how I can spend the next twenty-two hours. Though, I'll warn you: if it doesn't involve both of us naked and sweaty, I'm going to be severely disappointed."

Laughing, Jensen peels himself off his couch Says, "Oh, I'm pretty sure I can think of something," as he heads upstairs for a shower.

They spend the afternoon in Jensen's bedroom and most of the evening in the family room, sprawled out on the couch watching countless episodes of primetime television Jensen's DVR has recorded over the past several months. They talk a little bit about the election and what it might mean for the future of the country, though that's mostly Matt talking and Jensen listening. They still don't talk about what it is going on between them, which pleases Jensen just fine.

He wonders if Jared's still visiting with his parents, maybe hanging out with his niece and nephew, enjoying his last few hours of the holiday weekend.

When Matt slides a hand into his shorts in the middle of an episode of _New York Minute_ , he catches himself thinking about Jared and that girl at McDowell's. Trish or Tina or whatever. He wonders if Jared would've considered her offer had Jensen shown any interest whatsoever. Of if he would've fucked her had Jensen not been there.

His head drops back against the couch, hips arching as Matt's hand curls around his. He closes his eyes and it's still Jared's face behind the lids. Jensen gives a low, strangled groan as he grabs Matt by the back of the neck and draws him in, the kiss heated and harsh, a crash of lips and teeth as Jensen's hand slides into Matt's hair, gripping tight. Matt keeps jerking him the whole time, thumb flicking expertly over the tip as he crowds in closer, body curved to get a better angle. Matt doesn't kiss like Jared, doesn't quite throw his whole body into it like Jared does, always keeping a little something back. And Jensen clings to that, focuses on how Matt twists his wrist and flicks his tongue over Jensen's upper lip, teasing before he pulls back and ducks down to guide Jensen's cock into his mouth.

"Jesus-- _yeah_ ," Jensen groans, his hand smoothing over Matt's back, fingers catching on the t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. He's not as broad as Jared and, while he's definitely got muscle, it's not nearly so pronounced. Jensen finds himself staring at the line of Matt's back and realizes with a crushing kind of clarity how seriously fucked he is.

His heart thuds and his hips give another helpless thrust when Matt's tongue flicks just under the head and he clenches his eyes tight.

"Yeah," he whimpers, his voice sounding strangely foreign and Matt breathes hot against him. Says, "God, Jensen," dark and heavy before sucking him back down again.

And this time, Jensen doesn't bother fighting it. He cards his fingers through Matt's too-short hair and keeps his eyes opened, staring blankly up at the ceiling as he lets the memories flood back, the ones he's spent the past several years trying to forget. Jared's mouth on him, eager and wet and inexperienced, the broad expanse of his palm, knuckles rough with calluses, the flicker of shadow over thick muscles, the pure strength in every inch of his body when he held Jensen down and slid into him like he fucking belonged there.

It's an onslaught of images, too much sensation and physical memory to leave any room for guilt. His orgasm hits fast and hard, back bowed as his dick pulses in the soft heat of Matt's mouth. And Matt takes it all, moaning softly as he swallows before pulling back with a wet-sounding sigh and pressing a kiss to the skin just below Jensen's navel.

"Love having your dick in my mouth," Matt murmurs and Jensen shivers and curls his fingers in the sleeve of Matt's t-shirt, tugging weakly.

The taste of himself on Matt's lips isn't anything new anymore and it manages to assuage some of the forming guilt as Matt settles into his lap, a knee on either side of Jensen's hips. Matt's leaking from the tip when Jensen gets a hand on him and he shudders at the touch, kiss faltering as he raises up higher to thrust into the tight circle of Jensen's fingers.

"Fuck, fuck-- _Jensen_. Yeah. God, c'mon."

Matt's voice is nothing like Jared's and it helps to keep Jensen rooted in the moment, clear on where he is and who he's with. At least until he scoots down and Matt slides up and he's got his lips around the heavy weight of Matt's dick. Because then he can close his eyes again, can imagine a slightly darker scent and longer cock bumping the back of his throat, firmer abs clenching under the press of his thumbs.

After, Matt slumps against him, struggling to catch his breath while Jensen's back gives a throb of protest. They clean themselves off and wander into the kitchen for another slice of leftover pie and Matt kisses him, slow and soft by the refrigerator. Easy as anything.

And it's good. It's comfortable. It feels like everything Jensen's supposed to want.

He drops Matt off at the airport the next morning before practice and Matt leans over for a quick kiss before stepping out. He promises to call and Jensen smiles and nods and, for just a moment, lets himself imagine keeping something like this.

:::

"So Megan's engaged."

It's Monday afternoon, five minutes before the start of practice and Jensen glances up from his notepad, eyebrow arched. "No shit?"

"No shit. Broke the news this weekend."

"You know the guy?"

"Yeah, his name's Jeremy. They've been together for a couple years now, live up in Seattle together."

"Huh," Jensen says, remembering the girl Jared had introduced him to all those years ago, sweet and as extroverted as her brother. "Send her my congrats, will you?"

Jared just laughs. "Dude, knowing her, you'll get a wedding invite."

"Free food and free booze?" Jensen says with a grin. "I'm totally there."

"Yeah," Jared agrees, his smile somewhat strained. Jensen refuses to read too much into it and swiftly changes the subject when he notices Jeff heading toward them.

"So you're in pads. That's a good sign."

Nodding, Jared knocks his knuckles against the hard plastic covering his chest. "It's amazing what three days of rest will do," he says. "Could get used to it."

"Yeah, well don't," Jeff says, his smile belying the serious tone of his voice. "We're just hitting the home stretch. See what you can do about not landing on your ass all the time, alright?"

"How 'bout you talk to Ford about that," Jared suggests. "See if he can work his magic on that O-line. Only so much I can do, man."

"Whine, whine, bitch and moan," Jeff smirks.

They're interrupted by the sharp honk of the foghorn as Kripke calls them to the middle of the field, quickly going over the planned drill work for the afternoon before splitting off by position to get it done. It's clear right from the start Jared's not the only player feeling rejuvenated and it's a subsequently smooth and productive practice, every guy on the team more alert and attentive.

The game plan for Cleveland is a more straight forward air attack. The Browns lack a strong defensive line and have virtually no pass rush to speak of. That coupled with Jared's returning state of health means they can give their running backs a much-needed reprieve.

Friday's walk-through is a little more relaxed than usual and Jensen isn't sure whether to read that as a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, it's good that the team is loose and confident; on the other, there is such a thing as being _too_ loose and _too_ confident. The Browns are coming off a loss against a division rival; they have a fire to win that the Cowboys simply can't match.

"We have a whole month left yet to play," Kripke says in the wrap-up meeting on Friday, his tone low with warning. "If you think there's no possible way for us to miss the playoffs right now, you're delusional. Pure and simple. All it takes are a few little mistakes. Inattention to detail. A lack of _drive_. You have to want this, every single game. And I don't mean as just a means to an end, just one step on the ladder to January. I mean you have to want to win _this_ game, this one right here. You need to _crave_ it. Do I make myself clear?"

A low affirmative rumble makes its way through the room and Kripke eyes the team for another long moment before giving a sharp nod.

"Alright. You'd better prove it or I'm taking it out of your asses."

Of all the U.S. cities Jensen's been in his life, Cleveland is definitely not among his favorites. Though he must admit it's at least marginally better in good company.

"Seriously, Padalecki, your best look is flat on your ass," Danneel says, laughing against the rim of her beer.

She and Jared have been going at it for about twenty minutes now, playfully ripping into each other, exchanging friendly, drunken jibes. Jensen's largely abstaining from taking sides, but if forced to tally up the score in his head, Danneel would definitely be the winner.

"It's just something in the way you fold," she continues.

"Like a house of cards," Jensen says helpfully.

Danneel nods. "Or a dying giraffe."

Jensen nearly falls off his stool laughing and even Jared looks amused, one eyebrow raised as he grins at Jensen.

"Hey, I can't help being tall!" he says, though he's still smiling from ear to ear, alcohol making his cheeks ruddy and the hair at his temples dark with sweat. "It's a long way down from up here."

" _Tiiiiim-berrrr!_ " Jensen yells, one hand cupping his mouth.

Luckily, the bar is mostly empty and his display garners only a few curious glances.

Still grinning, Jared shakes his head. "This is our last night game of the year, right?" he says, the question clearly directed at nobody in particular. "How many more times I gotta put up with this abuse?"

"Hey, nobody's making you stay, Jumbo," Danneel says.

Jared takes a sip of his beer and then points the bottle at Jensen. "Gotta stay. Keep him out of trouble."

"Excuse me?" Jensen scoffs, still fighting a grin.

"You know this guy once got me into a bar brawl? True story."

Laughing, Jensen points a finger. "You are so full of shit."

"I believe you," Danneel says as she shoots Jensen a quick glance. "We took a trip to Mexico a few years ago; you would not believe the shit he got into. By the way, drunken snorkeling? Not something I would recommend."

Jensen huffs out a stilted laugh. "How the hell did this conversation get turned around on me?"

Jared smiles at him and reaches over to grab the side of his neck, fingers tickling the short hairs of his nape. "Easy target, Jen," he says, squeezing faintly and leaning in close. Close enough for Jensen to focus on the tiny mole on his cheek. Jensen kind of wants to lick it. Which means he's definitely had way too much to drink already.

With a strained laugh, he pulls back, batting Jared's hand away before taking another healthy swig of his beer. Jared's grin doesn't falter.

They finish up a half hour later with Danneel wincing as she checks her watch. "I am seriously going to regret this in the morning," she says, taking another sip of her beer with one hand while while pulling a credit card out of her bag with the other. "I got this one, boys. You can pay me back in the playoffs if you make it that far."

Grinning, Jared slides off his stool. "I take back every nasty thing I've ever said about you, Harris," he says. "Be right back, I need a piss."

"Charming," Danneel says with a quick snort.

"Don't forget to wash your hands!" Jensen calls out after him, smirking when Jared flips him the bird over his shoulder. He takes another pull from his beer and notices Danneel staring at him. "What?"

"Were you lying to me?"

She's smiling as she asks it, but there's a hint of something that immediately makes Jensen a little uncomfortable. "About what? What are you talking about?"

Her gaze slides over to where Jared has just disappeared. "Is there really a Matt?"

Jensen coughs a laugh, lips twisted into a grin until he realizes she isn't joking. "What the-- yes, there's a Matt. You think I'm lying?"

Danneel's expression doesn't change, still unamused and assessing. "You don't talk about him."

"What exactly am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know. Anything. What does he do for a living? What kind of beer does he like? What sort of movies do you guys see together? What do you talk about? How is he handling the long distance thing? This is pretty basic shit here."

"Jesus, Danny, I've been seeing him for maybe three months. It's not like I'm not in love with the guy!"

"Yeah, but you don't talk about him _at all_ , Jensen," Danneel says. "And I know you, I know you're weird about personal stuff, but hell, the last time you dated a guy, you at least gave me more than just his _name_."

"You know he lives in D.C.," Jensen argues because he remembers telling her that much. "You know we went to high school together, that I used to date his sister, that he sometimes flies out to Texas for work. What the hell else do you want, his life story? Christ."

Danneel doesn't respond to that for a long moment before pursing her lips. "I just want you to be honest with me."

"I _am_ being--" Jensen cuts himself off with harsh laugh, frustrated sound. "Why the hell would I lie about this?"

She laughs then, low and bitter-sounding as she briefly darts a glance past Jensen's shoulder and her voice drops. "How about to cover up who you're really fucking?"

The implication is clear and Jensen feels his stomach drop out and skin go tight. But before he can open his mouth to argue, a large hand drops to his shoulder and squeezes. "Were y'all discussing the perfection that is my ass while I was gone?" Jared says, voice a low, easy drawl. "It's okay. Happens all the time."

Just like that, Danneel's smile is back, bright and effortless as ever. "Damn, you caught us, sweet cheeks," she says, smacking the black bill folder against Jared's chest. "Make sure they take care of this, will you? My turn to empty the bladder."

Jensen barely looks at her as she passes and forces a smile at Jared.

It's apparently not good enough of a fake as Jared's grin falters. "Dude, you okay?"

"Oh, I'm just _peachy_ ," Jensen snaps before finishing off his beer with one long pull.


	10. Chapter 10

It's not the worst hangover he's ever had, but Jensen still spends most of the flight to DFW with his eyes closed, silently praying for sleep that never comes as Jared snores quietly beside him.

Upon landing, Kripke informs the players they have the rest of the day off and, nearly in the same breath, informs the coaches of a meeting to discuss the upcoming game and schedule for the week.

"Five o'clock," Kripke tells them. "I'll have Alona order in some food; it's gonna be a long night."

"Sucks to be you," Jared murmurs and the only reason Jensen doesn't punch him in the face is because he actually sounds mostly sincere. Also, punching would take far more effort than he's currently able to expend.

He grabs a shower as soon as he gets home and throws in a load of laundry before managing to find enough food in his fridge for a quick lunch. He's in the middle of eating said lunch, a cheese and bacon quesadilla, in front of a recorded episode of SportsCenter when his phone rings.

The caller I.D. makes him hesitate for a second and he slowly finishes his bite, swallowing it down before answering.

"Oh, hey!" Matt says, voice cheerful as ever. "Didn't expect you to actually pick up."

"Victory Monday. Got a couple hours to kill, what's up?"

"Well, see, I heard a rumor," Matt says, the smile evident in his voice. "Something about a game being played here this weekend? You know anything about this?"

Jensen huffs a half-hearted laugh and picks off another bite of his food. "Might've heard something, yeah."

"Oh good. I was worried the local sports page was lying to me."

"Since when do you read the sports page?"

"Some guy on the Metro was reading it. I caught a glance. Anyway."

Jensen pops a sliver of quesadilla into his mouth and speaks around it, words muffled. "I can get you a ticket if you want," he says as he brushes his hand clean on his thigh.

"Well, I'm a little more interested in what might happen before or after the game, but yeah. That'd be great if it's not too much trouble."

"It's not," Jensen assures him. "Though you may want to consider disguising yourself as a Skins fan unless you want a beer bath."

"Who says I'd need a disguise?"

"Ah, touché," Jensen laughs. They spend a few more minutes catching up before Matt has to get back to work and after hanging up, he stares down at his phone, Matt's face and name still lighting up the screen. He thinks of Danneel's words from the night before and his conversation with Josh at Thanksgiving and the step he took three years ago to bring him where he is right now.

Matt makes him laugh, makes him think. Makes him believe for the first time in awhile that he could really have something good and uncomplicated that isn't football.

So what the hell's stopping him?

:::

The one advantage to playing the Redskins twice a year is that the Cowboys already very familiar with the Redskins' strengths and weaknesses. However, the largest disadvantage is that the Redskins are equally familiar with the Cowboys strengths and weaknesses. As a result, there's a history of unpredictability whenever the two teams meet; talent and season record has no bearing on the outcome; it's really anyone's ballgame.

Intensity is higher in practice throughout week, the holiday break long past. Injuries are stacking up on both sides of the ball, eating into the depth chart and every on-field play and drill is a struggle. With only four games remaining in the regular season, it's to be expected. But with the playoffs well in their sights, there's no choice but to keep pushing.

Wednesday is a particularly rough practice, leaving more than a few players heading into the training room to meet with Misha and the rest of the trainers.

Jared isn't one of them, but Jensen can see he's definitely not unaffected by the way he gingerly readjusts his shoulder pads in between plays, fingers dipping between the plastic and his undershirt to pull them away from his sore ribs.

"Hey, you okay?" Jensen asks as Porter runs in to field a few snaps.

Dropping his hands, Jared tugs his practice jersey back in place and pastes on a quick smile. "I'm good."

Jensen arches an eyebrow, watching Jared carefully for a long moment, but Jared doesn't waver. If anything, his smile only becomes warmer, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he looks out onto the field.

"Actually, I got a question for you."

"Hmm," Jensen says, only half paying attention as his gaze follows Jared's to watch Porter hurl off a thirty yard pass to Chambers. It's a decent throw, but could be cleaner and more to the outside to better prevent an interception. Jensen makes a note of it on his pad.

"Logan's a Stars fan, right? Well, I've got a buddy with a few tickets to the game this Friday. Was wondering if maybe you'd wanna go."

Jensen tucks the pad under his arm and glances over at Jared, brows furrowed. "You, me and Logan?"

"Brodie, too, if he wants to come. Got four tickets. Right behind home bench."

It sounds casual enough, nothing more than an invitation between friends, but that doesn't stop Jensen's immediate apprehension. There's nothing going on between them, but how normal is it for a player and coach to hang out in public? How will that look to the media? To the fans? What will they think about their starting quarterback enjoying a hockey game with his gay coach?

How much will Logan hate him if he found out his uncle turned down tickets to a Stars game?

Letting out a quiet breath, Jensen glances over. "Let me make sure they're free and I'll let you know."

Jared's answering smile is slow, but warm, sweat-damp hair falling over his forehead as he gives Jensen a nod. "Yeah, definitely."

:::

"Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you all how big a game this is," Kripke says during the team wrap-up meeting on Friday. "But, just in case anyone's happened to miss it... this game can decide whether we march into January or pack up our bags and go home for the year."

Someone in the back lets out a loud _whoop_ at that and the room breaks into quiet laughter, some of the tension rippling away as even Kripke cracks a smile.

"That's exactly right," he says. "We can cheer for that. But don't forget what I said the other week - this isn't the playoffs yet. We can't put our focus on five weeks from now, we need to focus on _this_ Sunday, _this_ game."

It's not entirely true, of course, and they all know it. A loss in Washington won't kick them out of the playoff running, but only drop them down to an 11-2 record and put their divisional lead in some jeopardy. It doesn't mean they won't have a chance at clinching in another week, but it's good to get it over with early if only for some peace of mind.

"I want you _present_ , you got it? I need you on that field on Sunday in body, mind and spirit. We're not in Dallas or Minnesota or San Francisco, we're in _Washington_. From the minute we board that plane tomorrow morning, I want you in the moment, in this game and this game only. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," come a few voices from the front row and Kripke tilts his head a little, eyebrow arched.

"'Scuse me?"

The message is repeated, louder this time, a chorus of eager soldiers: "YES! SIR!"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Kripke says, face splitting into a smile. "Let's count it out, men. Show me what you got."

:::

After dropping off Jared's car, picking up the boys and driving across town to the AAC, they make the game with just two minutes to spare. Logan's so busy gaping at the location of their seats that his complaints about missing the warm-ups immediately cease. Or it could be it's just too loud for Jensen to notice, the announcer already stirring the crowd into a frenzy with the home team introductions, spotlights swooping and twirling over the audience as the music makes the stands shudder beneath their feet.

"And number ninety-two at center, Brrrrrrroderick Morris!"

Logan goes crazy at that one, shouting and whooping beside Jensen. "He's my favorite!" he explains and Jensen only nods and laughs as he and Jared share a grin.

The game starts soon thereafter and Logan spends a good portion of the first period literally on the edge of his seat, alternately cheering at the players on the ice and staring at the ones on the bench right in front of them. He's wide-eyed the entire time, seemingly breathless with excitement and Jensen has to admit he's enjoying himself as well, even if he doesn't have quite the same enthusiasm.

During the first intermission, Jensen recruits Brodie to help him seek out food and, when they return with armfuls of pizza, nachos and soda, he finds Logan giving Jared a lesson on hockey. Jared looks completely engrossed, leaning in close with a wide smile as Logan points at the ice, only glancing up when Jensen and Brodie start making their way down the aisle.

"Oh hey, let me--" Jared says, reaching forward to take two of the boxes from Jensen's arms and then leaning back to let them squeeze past. "Logan was just explaining icing to me," Jared says once they're all seated and Jensen makes sure everyone has the right order of food and soda.

"Oh yeah?" he says, leaning back in his seat and peeling off a slice of warm pizza. "I've been trying to figure that one out for years."

Jared digs his fingers into his plate of nachos. "Good, I don't feel like such an idiot for not getting it, then."

"It's not _that_ hard," Logan says. "You just don't pay attention."

"Yeah, Jared, pay attention," Jensen grins.

Jared looks offended for half a second before huffing out a laugh.

The score is 4-2 at the end of the second period and this time it's Jared who decides to do the foraging when the game breaks for intermission.

"I want one of those things," Brodie says, pointing to a girl a few rows over. Or, more specifically, the churro she's eating.

"Think I can manage that. Jensen, you want anything? Logan?"

Logan shakes his head, but Jensen thinks Brodie has the right idea and tells Jared to grab him one, too. The third period is five minutes underway by the time Jared finally gets back, four churros clutched in his hands and a sheepish smile on his face.

"Sorry," he mutters, passing off one stick of cinnamon goodness to Jensen and one to Brodie and keeping two for himself. "Ran into some fans."

Jensen only smirks. "Gee, imagine that."

"Hey, I'm a hot commodity, Ackles. You should feel honored to be in my presence right now."

"Oh, I am. I am _oozing_ with honor."

"Remind me to give you my autograph again when we're through here. I know it's all you can think about."

"Right. I'll be sure to add it to my shrine."

"Maybe I'll even let you sniff my shirt."

" _Shhh!_ " Logan snaps, interrupting with a sharp glare. "You two mind?"

Fighting a grin, Jensen takes another bite of his churro.

The Stars lose their lead halfway through the third period and Logan is nearly beside himself for the last three minutes, muttering criticisms and encouragement under his breath and jumping to his feet whenever the Stars get near the Sharks' goal. The entire arena is on its feet for the last minute and a half as the players zoom from one end of the ice to the other, the puck smacking against the sticks and boards as the pace picks up.

When the Sharks score a goal in the last twenty seconds, Jensen's afraid Logan might start crying. His face is red from screaming, hands balled into fists at his side and he watches the last few moments of the game tick away with a grim stare.

"Dude, I'm sorry," Jared tells him as they're gathering their jackets.

"Not your fault," Logan says, though he's clearly still upset. "We just need a new goalie. Strazinzki sucks."

"Well, I thought it was pretty awesome up until the last few minutes," Jensen says, clapping a hand on his nephew's back as they follow the crowd up the stairs.

"I liked the cinnamon things," Brodie agrees. "Can Mom make those?"

"Don't be stupid, she'd need one of those fryer things," Logan says, rolling his eyes.

"I"m not stupid. You're a jerk."

"And you're a whiny little brat."

"Alright, chill out," Jensen interrupts, pulling Logan back against him.

"You chill out," Logan grumbles and Jensen arches an eyebrow, but doesn't push it. Let's the tight grip he has on the kid's shoulder say enough.

They stop by the bathrooms on the way out and while they're waiting on the boys to finish, Jared nudges Jensen's arm. He has his phone out as he looks over at Jensen, smiling like he's up to something.

"Okay, so I didn't mention this earlier 'cause I wasn't sure it'd pan out and I didn't want to get Logan's hopes up only to crush them," he says, voice low and fast, "but if we make it down and around the back, I think I'll be able to get us in to meet some of the players."

Jensen blinks. "Are you serious?"

"Totally serious," Jared says, smile brightening slowly. "It's the name, man. Like a key to the city."

Huffing a laugh, Jensen just shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

"So we're gonna do it, right?"

"Dude, of course," Jensen says without missing a beat. "My nephew's gonna think you're the second coming of Christ, but yeah. We're doing it."

:::

The car is almost eerily quiet without Logan's and Brodie's voices filling the empty space. It's a good kind of quiet, though. Comfortable and introspective. Jensen doesn't bother hiding the smile on his face as he drives, doesn't care that it's already nearly midnight and he has to be up and on a plane in only eight hours. All he can think about are the smiles on his nephews' faces and the fact that he's fairly sure he solidified himself as the world's coolest uncle ever.

He has the radio tuned to his favorite channel and he reaches to turn the volume down before glancing over at Jared.

"Hey," he says, breaking the comfortable silence as he turns onto his street. "So tonight was pretty awesome."

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Jared's lips twitch into a faint smile. "Yeah. Think the kids had a good time."

"I don't think Logan's gonna wash his right hand ever again."

"Dude, his face when Morris walked over... I thought he'd shit himself. Seriously."

Jensen laughs then, still warm all over. "' _Call me Rick_ ,'" he parrots, shaking his head in amusement.

"I think I literally saw hearts in his eyes," Jared says.

"You realize you're probably his favorite person on the entire planet now, right?"

"Well, that was my goal all along," Jared says. "Trying to take over the world one teenage boy at a time."

"Wow," Jensen says with another quick laugh. "Yeah, that doesn't sound creepy at all."

Jared laughs, the sound bright and satisfying as Jensen pulls into his front drive. "So not how I meant it."

Grinning, Jensen puts the car into park and kills the engine before tugging off his seatbelt. It takes him a second to notice Jared's not following suit and he pauses before opening his door, eyebrow cocked in question.

"We should meet up Sunday after the game," Jared says. "Go out for a drinks or something. Maybe catch the other games."

There's such a tone of hope in Jared's voice that it takes Jensen a second to remember why he has to decline. "Sorry, Jay. I've, uhm." He pauses to push his door open, lips twisting into an apologetic grimace as he shuts it behind him, waits for Jared to do the same on the passenger side. "I've actually got plans."

"What, a meeting or something?" he asks, looking more curious than hurt.

Jensen shrugs. "No. I'm seeing Matt. He's coming to the game."

"Oh," Jared says, quiet. Jensen watches his expression shift lightning fast, Jared's chest expanding as he takes a breath and then say, "Well, hey, no problem. Just... you know. Thought I'd ask."

The shift in mood is impossible to ignore, but Jensen tries for a smile. "Next time, man. Got a few games left yet."

"Yeah," Jared replies.

Jensen watches him for another second or two, waiting for him to say something more. When he gets only silence, he finally pockets his keys and starts heading for his front door. "I'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early."

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

Jensen's nearly to his front porch and he turns slowly, eyebrow arched. Jared's a few yards away, just on the edge where the lawn meets the driveway. The street lamp casts a shadow over his brow.

"Uhm," Jensen says, wary confusion making him breathe a laugh. "Can I really stop you?"

Jared's lips quirk at that and he rubs a hand over his face before looking at Jensen head-on, but clearly hesitant.

"Look, I know... I know things aren't like they were before and maybe they never will be. I know you've found-- I mean, Matt seems like a really great guy. He does. But I don't-- Has he talked to you at all recently? Has he told you exactly what it is he does?"

Just like that, Jensen's smile falters.

"What are you talking about, Jared?"

The question comes out low and biting, but Jared barely flinches, just raises one hand, palm out like he's trying to fend himself from a blow Jensen hasn't even thought to throw yet.

"He's a lobbyist, Jensen. For a gay rights group."

"I know," Jensen says except that's not completely true. He's fairly sure he doesn't remember the term _lobbyist_ ever being mentioned.

"Do you?" Jared asks, taking a couple steps closer, head tilted. "Because from what Matt told me, he deliberately kept it a secret from you."

"What the fuck are you--"

"At the party," Jared says. "Halloween. You were off getting a few beers and he was a little drunk and I was just trying to make conversation--"

"You _interrogated_ him?"

"No!" Jared shouts and then ducks a little, quiets his voice. "Jesus, Jensen. Give me some fuckin' credit, will you? We were just talkin' and he was drunk and said a few things."

"Like _what_ , Jared? What horrible, awful thing did he confess that you desperately think I should know? And what makes you think it's _any_ of your fucking business to begin with?"

"Do you know why he called you this summer? Why he was so anxious to meet up with you?"

Jensen's lips curve into a scowl, one hand balling into a fist at his side. "Because we hadn't seen each other in fifteen years, Jared. Jesus, just get to the fucking point."

"He works for the HRC," Jared says, voice completely calm and firm, shoulders tense. "You remember them, right? As I recall, they kind of made your life hell when you refused to make coming out a bigger celebration. Couldn't figure out why you didn't want your own damn parade."

It's not the worst thing Jensen's ever heard, but his gut churns as Jared watches him closely.

"He met up with you because he saw an opportunity to advance his cause and wanted to take advantage of it. He was gonna convince you to do an interview, get you to step up and claim your role as the Next Gay Hope and maybe help out in Schweitzer's campaign. He wanted to _use_ you."

Jensen's lips curl into a sneer. "Jesus, you are so full of shit."

"I'm not," Jared says, voice still clear and alarmingly calm. "He told me all this, man. Just like he told me he gave up after a few weeks because-- Fuck, because he felt like he might have something good with you and he didn't want to fuck it up."

The last part sounds strained, like Jared has a physically hard time getting the words out and Jensen can feel his pulse thrumming in his ears, the brisk night air doing nothing to cool the heat flushing his skin. He feels stupid, struck completely dumb by everything Jared's saying. He wants to call Jared a liar except he knows somehow that it's all true. If only because it makes sense.

Swallowing, he finally manages to make his mouth work, eyes narrowing as he says, "You shouldn't be telling me this."

"You're right," Jared says, lips twisting into a humorless smile as he holds his arms out wide. "Not my secret to tell. But honestly, man, I held out as long as I could. Gave him plenty of time to come clean."

Jensen barks out a laugh at that, sharp and bitter, fights the flash of anger that rides through him. "Wow." He sneers, lips curling as he shakes his head. "Yeah, that's really fucking big of you, Jay."

He doesn't give Jared a chance to say anything else, just turns and walks the few remaining feet to his front door, slips the key in the lock and walks on through.

From what he can tell, Jared makes no move to follow.

:::

Two minutes into the fourth quarter, Jared has his second fumble and third turnover of the day.

"Jesus Christ, come _on_!" Jensen shouts through the comm link. "I know you've got better ball control than this, Jared, what the fuck is going on?"

Given that Jared can't actually answer him, the outburst serves no real purpose other than a means to vent some of his frustration as the Redskins offense takes the field. Somewhat miraculously, the Cowboys are still ahead by nearly two touchdowns, due in no small part to their stellar defense. Neither the venting nor the scoreboard really make Jensen feel any better, though.

Especially not when the Skins manage to march all the way down the field and into the end zone three minutes later.

"Oh, this don't look good," Whitlfield murmurs while Kripkes swear loudly in Jensen's ear.

When Jared and the offense again take the field, Jensen somehow manages to keep his voice calm as he relays the plays and possible audibles. There are still eight minutes left in the game, which is both too much time and not enough depending on how the next few minutes play out, but they still try to eat up as much of the clock as possible, going for a few running plays and short passes up the middle. And, though Jared manages to take four minutes off the clock, he doesn't succeed in getting the offense anywhere close to the red zone.

Instead, they try for a 52-yard field goal that, unsurprisingly, flies wide right and with four minute to go, it's once again the Redskins' ball.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Jensen glances down at the sidelines to see Jared sprawled on the bench with his helmet dangling between his knees. He has a paper cup of Gatorade in his other hand and his hair, soaked with sweat, is swept back off his forehead. He looks worn out and pissed off, his right leg jittering as he keeps his head tipped back, eyes focused on the Jumbotron.

It won't be solely Jared's fault if they lose this game, but with two fumbles, one interception and not a single touchdown by his hands... well, it doesn't take a genius to know how the media will spin it.

Jensen still has a really difficult time feeling sorry for him, though.

The Redskins make it to the Dallas 15-yard line just before the two-minute warning and as the stadium floods with filler music, Jensen rifles through his notes. If the defense doesn't hold and the Redskins score, the Cowboys should hopefully have at least some time to get back down the field for a last-minute field goal. It won't be pretty, but it's not as though the NFL gives extra points for style.

As play resumes it's the Redskins turn to eat up the clock. A touchdown will knock the score up to 28-27 in the Skin's favor and the longer they draw it out, the less time the Cowboys will have to retaliate.

Jensen prays for an interception, prays for a fumble, prays for a crushing sack and loss of fifteen to twenty yards.

None of that happens.

Instead, with just a minute and five seconds left in the game, the Redskins score and the hometown Washington crowd goes absolutely ballistic.

Following the kick, the Cowboys have fifty-eight seconds and two time outs in which to travel seventy-five yards. In the end, they only end up using forty seconds and a single time out before the drive peters out on an incomplete pass on a fourth down attempt.

The final score stands at 28-27. It's the first game the Cowboys have lost since week one, a swift and effective end to their eleven-game winning streak.

:::

The mood in the locker room is suitably tense, the players peeling out of their uniforms in utter silence. Kripke's post-game speech is short and to the point, his sharp tone in no way hiding the frustrated disappointment Jensen's sure they're all feeling.

"That wasn't the game we came here to play," he says. "There was no focus, no drive, no _fight_."

The last word echoes through the room, overwhelming the quiet hush of guys still disrobing, plastic falling to the carpeted floor, towels wiping over sweat-grimed skin.

"If we have _any_ shot of making it to and through the playoffs, you're gonna have to show a _hell_ of a lot more than what you did out there tonight. You're gonna have to prove that you _want_ it! Not just one game, but _every_ game. Every. single. _fucking_. game. No matter how seemingly trivial."

Someone on the far side of the room coughs. Someone else bangs his helmet into the wood of his locker cubby.

When Kripke speaks again, he sounds resigned. "Alright, get cleaned up," he says, tugging on the rim of his cap and heading for the door to the media room.

Jensen doesn't stay much longer. His gaze wanders over the room, eventually landing on Jared and dropping to the purpled bruise coloring his ribs. He considers heading over to talk to him, but quickly decides against it. The game's over, after all. There's nothing more for him to say until practice.

He checks his phone as he leaves the locker room and finds a text from Matt.

' _Sorry about the game. Outside gate D. Let me know when on your way._ '

Jensen's thumb brushes over the screen of his phone as he tries to quell the new wave of discomfort and finally replies with: ' _Meet you in 10._ '

:::

"You're taking this pretty hard, aren't you?"

Matt's tone is purely sympathetic and Jensen glances up from his plate of grilled chicken with a frown. It's been a relatively quiet meal so far, the conversation uncharacteristically strained between them, weighted down by everything Jensen can't bring himself to ask. Apparently, Matt's starting to noticed.

"The loss," he continues, watching Jensen carefully. "I mean, I get it. It's your job, it's a big deal. Guess I just never really..." His words trail off, lips twisting slightly, like he's trying for a smile. "Whatever, I'm sorry. I know the mood's kinda." He waves a hand. "We can cut tonight short if you want. I really don't mind."

Jensen watches him for a moment, considering.

"For what it's worth, it was still a really good game," Matt says, clearly trying to lighten the mood as he brings a bite of salad to his mouth. "I mean, it would've been better if you'd won, but it was still exciting. I had a good time."

"You don't even like football."

It comes out sounding more accusatory than Jensen really intends and he doesn't miss the way Matt falters a little. "I don't _dis_ like it. I just don't quite get it. I'm learning, though," he adds with a small smile. "Little by little."

He sounds completely sincere, smile tentative but warmer as he slides his hand across the table, fingers lightly touching Jensen's wrist.

Jensen finishes his bite and sits back. "I need to ask you something," he finally manages, quiet and calm. "And I really, _really_ need you to be honest with me."

"Okay," Matt says, the word low and drawn out as his smile fades. "This sounds ominous."

"Do you work for the HRC?"

Matt's immediate wince is all the answer Jensen needs, but he waits it out. When Matt gives only a nod, Jensen pushes on, keeping his expression totally neutral. "So you're a lobbyist."

Matt releases a quiet breath. "For lack of a better term, yes."

"Okay," Jensen says, taking that in. But it's not the important part. Sure, Matt lied to him, but only by omission and maybe Jensen is at least partly to blame for not prying further or asking the right questions. And it's not like being a lobbyist is the worst thing in the world.

"I meant to tell you," Matt says a moment later. "Hell, I should've a long time ago, I know that. I was just. I was afraid you'd associate me entirely with who I work for and not--"

"You tried to manipulate me."

Matt nearly gapes at that, frown deepening. "What?"

"I kept bitching to you about Jeff and the organization being all up my ass and you were right there with them the whole way, pushing me even though you _knew_ \--"

"Jensen. No, that's not--"

"Jared told me, okay? He told me the whole reason you even wanted to meet up with me back in August was because you were hoping to convince me to. Fuck, I don't know, spearhead some kind of fucking _movement_ or something. Give the HRC a face for the Democratic campaign."

"Goddamnit, that's not--"

"Was he lying?"

Matt's mouth snaps shut, eyes locked on Jensen's before he finally says, "Look, at first, maybe that was something I was hoping to talk to you about, but it wasn't. Jesus, Jensen, it wasn't the whole reason I called you. It wasn't why I wanted to see you."

"Then why didn't you ever just _tell_ me? "

Huffing out a breath, Matt sits back, fork clattering to his plate. "Would you really have kept talking to me if I'd confessed to having an agenda, Jensen?"

"I don't know," Jensen replies, struggling to keep his mounting anger in check. "Maybe not if you'd admitted to wanting to _use_ me, but I'm not a total asshole, Matt. I would've at least heard you out."

"Does it even matter that I changed my mind?" Matt asks, voice quieter as he leans in closer.

Jensen's lips twist into a sneer and lets out another rough, bitter laugh. "To what? To deciding you'd rather fuck me than fuck me over?"

"It's not like that," Matt says, his voice still quiet. "Come on, Jensen, you know it's not like that."

"Yeah, I honestly have no idea what it's like right now," Jensen says, with a strained, flat smile. "Aside from over, I mean."

"Jensen."

Looking back down at his plate, Jensen doesn't even try pretending he's still hungry. He sets down his fork and drops his napkin on the table before reaching for his beer. He doesn't walk out and makes no move to leave the table.

Matt's still watching him, eyes pleading. "Jensen, let's talk about this," he says, but Jensen only levels him with a look.

They split the check ten minutes later and exchange stilted goodbyes before Jensen catches a cab back to the hotel.

It doesn't feel like a break-up exactly; Jensen's still unsure whether or not they'd ever really been dating in the first place so he's fairly sure the term doesn't apply. He isn't heartbroken. As the street lights and buildings roll past his window, he realizes he isn't even really angry anymore. There's a sense of inevitability he can't quite explain, a sense that if it hadn't been this, it would've been something else. This was just a convenient reason. An excuse.

He watches the city pass, streets dirtied with days old snow, lights from windows glittering above.

D.C. isn't Dallas and never will be, but there's still a small part of him that will always have an attachment. He'd made something of a name for himself here if only for a year or two. This is where he'd worn his first NFL jersey, stepped onto his first professional field, won his one and only playoff game. This is where he'd met Chris and where he'd first started coming to terms with what it meant to be a gay man in the NFL. This is where he realized the sacrifices he'd have to make to get by, the lies he'd have to tell.

He's been out for three years now and he can't help thinking not all that much has changed. He's still making sacrifices, still lying. Still _hiding_.

He's starting to wonder if maybe he always will be.


	11. Chapter 11

With the end of the season so near, exhaustion weighs heavy and the risk of injury is more and more prevalent. So, despite the loss, the players are given Monday off, more as necessity than luxury, though Kripke makes a point of letting them know he expects everyone to show up on Tuesday refreshed and ready for the week.

Per normal, the coaches are still called in to discuss the previous game and prepare for the next, determine the areas that require improvement while detailing a plausible future plan of attack. Unsurprisingly, Jared is their highest concern.

"His inconsistency is worrying," Jensen says, flipping through his notes. "Some of it may be residual injury issues; he still has a hell of a bruise on his left side and his footwork and fluidity are noticeably suffering. Some of it may be mental."

"Mental?" Kripke asks, eyebrow arched.

"He's looking too far ahead. Not focusing. Underestimating the opponent." Jensen has the feeling there might be other contributing factors too, though he's not about to mention them.

Jeff nods. "Jared usually knows better, but this game... there's no reason for him to be playing like that. None."

After another fifteen minutes worth of discussion, it's decided that Jared's progress will be a priority for the week, paying particular attention to further aggravation of his injury and adjusting play calls and offensive schemes accordingly. From there, they delve deeper into the rest of the offense, going player by player before starting in on the defense.

"Alright," Kripke says on a heavy exhale a good hour later. "Let's take a look at these Lions." Twisting back in his chair, he taps the video wall behind him and a clip from last week's Detroit-Philadelphia game starts up. "Feel free to shout out any observations, tactical imperfections and crude jokes at will."

It's another two hours before they're done for the evening.

:::

Misha gives Jared's ribs another look Tuesday morning. Based on his findings and after some discussion with Jeff, Jensen decides to have Jared practice without pads for the remainder of the week.

The fact that Jared puts up no argument is awfully telling.

Jensen stays late every day, most of that time spent with Jeff and Kripke, going over player productivity and making necessary adjustments. He gets a few e-mails and texts from Matt and ignores them all. Though, he's fairly sure that makes him an asshole, he can't bring himself to care too much. He has a job to do.

Jared only speaks to him either on the practice field or in meetings and only ever about subjects directly related to the task at hand. And it's fine. It's good. If nothing else, it's proof they can exist in a purely professional capacity, which is a definite relief.

On Friday night, Jeff stops by Jensen's office, grinning faintly as he knocks at Jensen's opened door.

"You're here kinda late."

"Mmm," Jensen says, pulling his attention away from the practice footage he's been painstakingly going through for the past couple hours. Leaning back in his chair, he rubs a hand over his jaw and offers a small smile. "Just reviewing a couple things. What's up?"

"About to head out," Jeff says, nodding down at the bag in his hand. "Thought I'd see if I could convince you to do the same."

Quirking a smile, Jensen shakes his head and motions back to his computer screen. "Maybe in another hour or so."

"Hmm," Jeff replies, his eyes on Jensen's computer for a long moment. "You talk to him recently?"

"Who, Jared?" Jensen asks, a frown tugging at his lips. "Of course. Why?"

Jeff's brow remains furrowed and he shakes his head a little. "Something's off with him. You haven't noticed?"

Of course Jensen's noticed, and he's fairly sure of the cause, but there is no way in hell he's telling Jeff any of it. So instead, he shrugs. "He's under a lot of pressure right now. Playoffs right around the corner, local media on his back about the last couple games."

"He's been under pressure worse than this," Jeff says, lips still curved in a frown. "He's distracted. Like he's putting all his energy into trying to look focused when he's anything but. You get what I'm saying?"

Jensen considers it. Then lets out a slow, tired breath as he gives a nod.

"I'll talk to him," he says and Jeff arches an eyebrow, seemingly noticing the reluctant tone Jensen hadn't bothered to hide.

"There something goin' on here I should know about?"

Jensen shakes his head. "No, why?"

Frowning, Jeff studies him for another long moment and Jensen meets the look head-on before Jeff finally relaxes, lips twitching into a faint smile. "Seriously, Ackles. Get your ass outta here. Not gonna be much use on Sunday if you're exhausted."

"Yeah, yeah," Jensen says, relief helping aiding his smile as he shoos Jeff out of his office.

It's still another hour before he leaves, but what Jeff doesn't know won't hurt him.

:::

Jensen spends his Saturday doing some last-minute Christmas shopping before making his way to the Gaylord. He drops his bag on the floor and changes into a pair of lounge pants and old t-shirt. He calls up some room service and turns the television to a showing of _Return of the King_ , a movie he's seen approximately a hundred times, but never tires of.

It's nearly nine o'clock when he picks up the phone to call Jared's room and is relieved when it goes to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me," he says, awkward and hesitant. He clears his throat. "Just uh. Wanna tell you good luck, man. I know you've got some stuff on your mind and maybe... well, maybe we can talk about it later. Right now, I just kinda want you to go out and win tomorrow's game for us. I know you can. Just... we'll talk later, okay? Night, Jay."

It's really not the most eloquent message and he isn't sure whether or not he wants Jared to listen to it, but he lets it go through all the same, hanging up with a quiet sigh before grabbing a beer from the mini-bar.

:::

The final score of the Detroit game looks more like a baseball score than football, but Jared has a decent day, earning himself 288 yards and one touchdown. Jensen's more pleased that Jared hadn't managed a single turnover than anything else.

The mood in the locker room afterward is more celebratory than such a measly score deferential really warrants except that there's a very specific reason for it.

"Alright, listen up!" Kripke shouts as he hops up onto a fold-out chair set up in the middle of the room. He has a towel dangling from one hand and a ball in the other and the cap on his head is twisted slightly to the side. He fixes it as the room quiets, eyes scanning his players to make sure he has everyone's attention. "Judging by the noise level, I'm guessing you already know what I'm about to say here," he says, grinning wide, "but just in case anyone's still in the dark, I'd like to let you all know that today's victory has clinched us a spot in the playoffs."

That elicits an immediate reaction, loud cheers ringing from all corners of the room as sweat-soaked towels are waved in the air. Grinning, Kripke waits a few seconds for them to quiet before continuing.

"I wanna congratulate you all," he says, voice still pitched loud and clear. "This is a great team, a great, hardworking bunch of guys and I am fully confident of your abilities. We are not done here. We still have two more games to win and I expect you all to perform even better than you have so far this year. We can't go into the postseason on fumes, we have to go in fighting, we have to go in _wanting_. Can I get a 'Hell yeah' over here?"

"Hell yeah!" rings out in a spotty chorus, low, gruff voices bouncing off the walls as Kripke's smile only brightens.

"What was that?"

"HELL YEAH!"

"Can I get a 'Go Cowboys'?"

" _GO COWBOYS!_ "

"Alright!" Kripke shouts even louder. "Everyone get cleaned up. Day off tomorrow and I want you all ready bright and early Tuesday morning!"

With only three days of actual practice scheduled for the week, every second is inflated with importance. The coaches fight to make sure everyone is as ready as possible while the players, already mentally and physically exhausted, struggle to keep up.

Once again, Jensen stays late both Tuesday and Wednesday, holed up in his office reviewing practice footage and taking notes. Adjustments still need to be made depending on whether or not Chambers will be playing and Jensen's attempting to come up with all the available options, including some relatively risky ones that involve Jared doing a whole lot more maneuvering than he may be capable of.

A knock on his door Wednesday night barely pulls him out of his daze. Assuming it's Jeff, he doesn't even look up as he mutters, "One more hour. Promise."

"One more hour of what?" answers a familiar voice that definitely doesn't belong to Jeff.

Blinking, Jensen pauses the clip and looks over to see Jared standing in the doorway, bag heavy on his shoulder and lips curved in a faint smile.

"Just got done doing some conditioning with Gill. Guy's a workhorse, Jesus," Jared explains. "Mind if I come in for a few?"

"No, come on in," Jensen says as he sits back. Something tells him Jared isn't here to talk about anything team-related. "Everything okay?"

Stepping inside, Jared shuts the door and sets his bag on the floor.

"Yeah, no, everything's fine," Jared replies with another quick smile, though Jensen can immediately tell he's not being entirely truthful. "I just, uh. Christmas is only a couple days away."

Jensen manages a nod, watching Jared carefully for some further clue as to where the hell this is going. "Yeah," he finally says, still frowning slightly in confusion. "Going over to my parents' place with Josh and Allie. You got plans?"

"Yeah," Jared says, hooking one thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. "My folks are drivin' up with my aunt and uncle and we're all meetin' at Jeff's. Should be fun."

"Is Megan flying out?"

"Nah, she's stayin' up in Washington to hang with Jeremy's family."

Jensen nods at that and the conversation stalls into another awkward lapse of silence before Jared cuts it short. "I'm actually-- I have something I wanted to give you," he says and then crouches down to open his bag. Jensen hears the buzz of the zipper as Jared continues, "It's a little early, but I wanted you to have it before the big day since it's... well, it's not exactly entirely for you, I guess."

When Jared straightens up, he's holding a single sheet of paper and what looks like a hockey puck in one hand. Jensen arches an eyebrow.

"You know that buddy of mine who got me tickets to the game the other week?" he asks. Jensen has the feeling he's slowly beginning to get what's going on here, but can still only nod, eyes locked on Jared's face in disbelief. "Well, it turns out he knows a guy who's got, like, a whole row of seats just a few rows back from where we were that he's been wanting to sell. Like a season ticket kinda thing, you know? I guess he's had them for years and he usually just ends up selling them off one by one to scalpers, but I talked to him and he was willing to hand over four of them for next year, so..."

He steps forward then, setting the paper and puck down on Jensen's desk. It looks like some kind of proof of formal agreement, not quite a contract, but similar. There's a Stars logo in the upper left corner next to the one for the American Airlines Center and a few signatures at the bottom, one of which is Jared's. The writing in between makes the rest clear.

"You bought two pairs of season tickets for next season," Jensen says, mostly to himself though he looks up at Jared at the end of it, needing confirmation.

"Two pairs right next to each other so it's really four seats all together. That way Brodie can go too, if he wants. And, I don't know, maybe Josh or Allie or someone."

Jensen doesn't miss the way Jared carefully doesn't mention himself. Still staring at the piece of paper, he brings a hand to his mouth, already picturing the look of utter joy on his nephew's face when he finds out.

"Jesus, Jared, this is--"

"The tickets aren't officially on sale yet," Jared says quickly, cutting him off. "I mean. Obviously. This is basically just the agreement between me and the guy selling the seats. But I wanted you to know now so you could tell Logan. Unless. Well, they're your tickets now so you can do whatever you want with them, but I kinda just assumed..."

Jensen lets out a quick laugh as he sets the paper down, one hand rubbing his temple. "This is huge, Jared. I can't... fuck, man, I just got you a marble chess set."

"Really?" Jared asks, sounding surprised, a smile plastered across his face. "Does it come with its own stand? I've always wanted one of those."

"Jared, you're giving me _four season tickets_ ," Jensen says, ignoring him. "That's-- hell, I don't even wanna know how much these cost."

"Dude, I don't mean to brag, but I kinda make a lot of money," Jared says, his tone teasing. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a-- Jared, I can't accept this." Jared's smile finally falters then and Jensen has to immediately fight the pang of guilt that shoots through him. "Seriously, it's not... this is a lot, Jared. Maybe not for you, but for--"

"Jensen, please," Jared says, his voice alarmingly quiet. "Don't make this a thing, alright? I'm not giving you something I can't afford, I'm not making some big, sweeping pronouncement with it or anything. It's just a gift."

It doesn't feel like just a gift, not by a long shot. Because it's coming from Jared and because it's not just for Jensen, but for Jensen's nephew. His family. It feels dangerous and thrilling and so much like everything Jensen's been wanting for over the past decade that he can barely see through it all.

He rubs his hand across his mouth again and pulls in a slow breath, reaches out to run his thumb along the puck on his desk before finally looking up to meet Jared's eyes again.

"Okay," he finally says, completely unable to keep the warmth out of his voice. "Thank you, Jared, this is-- fuck, I don't even know. Thank you."

Jared smiles then and Jensen can literally see the relief wash across his face before he leans down to grab his bag. "Merry Christmas, Jensen," he says, the bag's strap once again tugging his t-shirt away from his neck as he reaches for the door. "I'll see you Friday."

:::

As expected, Logan nearly has a conniption when he opens the gift on Christmas morning. The paper and puck lie carefully wrapped in an ordinary, rectangular box, label addressed to both Logan and Brodie, but Jensen specifically requests Logan do the honors, Brodie hovering just over his shoulder the whole time.

"Oh my God," Logan says, gaping, the words drawled in a slight twang. "Oh my God, this is-- _Oh my God_."

Laughing, Jensen nods as Brodie frowns and reaches to take the puck from his brother. "What is it? I don't get it."

"They're season tickets, doofus," Logan answers helpfully. "Like, tickets to every single Stars game next year."

"Wow," Brodie says. "Aren't there a lot of games?"

"Tons. This is _awesome_."

Smiling, Allie glances over to Jensen then. "That's incredible, Jensen. You really didn't have to."

"Actually, I didn't," Jensen confesses. Taking another sip of his hot chocolate, he tucks his feet up under him and continues to grin down at Logan, who's seemingly busy trying to commit the words on the paper to memory. "You've got Jared Padalecki to thank for this one."

"Or blame," Josh sighs, though the crinkle at the corner of his eye gives him away.

"Is Jared the one who sold them to you, honey?" Jensen's mother asks.

Jensen has to fight the strange feeling he has something to hide as he shakes his head. "No, he's uhm... he's actually the one who bought them. But seeing as my butt isn't quite big enough yet to fill four seats, I figured I could handle sharing."

He's met with a beat of silence before his mother finally says, "Well, that was thoughtful of him."

"Yeah, Jared's a pretty thoughtful guy," Jensen says, easily shrugging it off even as Josh raises an eyebrow in his direction.

The rest of the day goes by far too quickly. They finish unwrapping presents and then gather around the dining room table to devour his mother's famous Dr Pepper-glazed ham before settling around the television to watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. Josh falls asleep half way through and Brodie sings along to every single word while Logan plays with his iGame.

It's past 8:00 by the time Jensen leaves, his car packed full of gifts and stomach full of ham, potatoes, pie and beer. Upon checking into the Gaylord an hour or so later, he's relieved to find Jared hasn't yet arrived and it doesn't take too much arm-twisting to convince the hotel staff to let him into Jared's room. With some help, he hauls the chess set up from his car and arranges it in the center of the room, a simple card folded and left in the middle of the board.

When his phone rings just after midnight, he doesn't even bother checking the I.D.

"Dude, you're up past curfew," he says, his free hand turning down the volume on the television.

Jared's laugh is quiet, low enough to make the blood in Jensen's veins go a little warm. "So're you."

"You woke me up."

"Liar," Jared says with another low chuckle. Then, "So apparently my room now comes with a marble chess set. You know anything about this?"

"Really? Huh. Mine just comes with free porn."

"Think they'll let me take it with me?"

"I'd like to see them try to stop you."

He hears Jared huff a laugh, nothing but a quiet puff of air before Jared says, "It's really nice, Jensen. Like. _Really_ nice. I love it. Thank you."

"Yeah, well," Jensen says.

"You should come over and play a round with me."

Jensen's mind trips over that sentence for a second and it takes him a beat to recover. " _Lose_ a round, you mean," he says with a quiet laugh.

"Tomato, to-mah-toe."

"We've got a game tomorrow, man," Jensen points out. "A big game. You should be sleeping."

"Game isn't 'til late, Jen. C'mon. You got an early meeting or something?"

Jensen does have a meeting scheduled for the next morning, but it's not particularly early and he finds himself heaving a sigh as he swings his legs off the side of the bed. "One game," he says.

"Awesome," Jared replies immediately, grin evident in his voice.

Smirking to himself, Jensen ends the call and heads for the door, not even bothering with shoes and socks.

He returns two hours later, still barefoot and only slightly buzzed. Jared had let him win one game before completely thrashing him in two more but, despite the sore ego, Jensen feels good. Feels great.

He falls asleep minutes later with the echo of Jared's low voice still in his head: "Merry Christmas, Jensen."

:::

Seven minutes into the first quarter, the Cowboys line up for second down on the Eagles' 10-yard line. Jared crouches behind center and rattles off the play and then drops back with the snap. It goes off just as planned, Jared firing off a pass to the back of the end zone where a wide-open Aldis stands waiting.

It's the first and last touchdown Jared manages all day, but thanks to another touchdown fifteen minutes later courtesy of Puryear, a couple field goals in the second half and their defense once again putting up a stellar showing, the Cowboys manage to maintain the lead.

The ending score of 20-13, however, does little to negate the two interceptions Jared had thrown in the course of the game. Though playing the Eagles is always something of a crapshoot given the divisional rivalry, they still aren't the caliber of team the Cowboys will be facing in the playoffs. Not even close.

As Jensen packs up his notes for the night and heads down to the locker room, he tries to will himself to relax. The real test will come against Minnesota, their last game of the regular season. The Vikings are currently tied with them for first place within the NFC, and the winner will earn the top seed going into the playoffs, guaranteeing themselves home field advantage throughout.

Frankly, if Jared plays like he has been over the past few weeks, they don't have a shot in hell of winning.

And judging by the look Jared gives him in the locker room later, subdued and fleeting as he wipes the sweat from his face with a towel, Jared knows it, too.

:::

"Our biggest issue right now is Jared," Jeff says during Tuesday's review. "I don't know if it's his ribs or lack of focus or the pressure, but something's off and we need to figure it out."

Nodding, Kripke taps his pen against the table. "How's he feeling? Physically, I mean."

"Bruising's gone down," Jensen jumps in. "He's showing much less visible discomfort in his pads, though he's still on painkillers. Still stiff, but not as bad as he was even a week ago. Honestly, I think whatever his issue is right now, it's much more mental."

"He's in a rut," Jeff agrees, sounding almost amused.

Kripke's answering smile is strained. "Excellent timing."

"How's his personal life?" Jeff asks, looking to Jensen. "If something's bothering him, it could be bleeding over."

Jensen gives an easy shrug. "Far as I know, everything's fine," he says, though he's fairly sure that's at least partly a lie. "His dogs are healthy, his sister's getting married, nephew and niece are fine."

"Nothing wrong with his parents?"

"If there is, he hasn't mentioned it."

Jeff arches an eyebrow. "Maybe you should ask."

"He seeing anyone?" Kripke asks before Jensen can respond. "It's been awhile since that whole business with Ms. Cortese, there could be some distraction there."

Jensen falters a little then, brow furrowing as he shakes his head. "No, I'm pretty sure he isn't seeing anyone."

"Hmm," Jeff says, still watching Jensen closely.

Carefully keeping his expression neutral, Jensen shrugs. "Look, I'll talk to him. See what I can figure out. It might just be that he's getting old and running out of steam quicker than we anticipated."

Kripke's frown deepens and he rubs a hand against his face. "We're three games away from the Super Bowl," he says, shaking his head as he drops his hand and scoots his chair closer. "Running out of steam isn't an option right now. I don't care if this is just a quick fix so long as it's a _fix_. Let's get it done, alright?"

"How 'bout we up Porter's snaps in practice then?" Jensen suggests. "Just in case."

"You really think Porter's up for playing in the playoffs?"

Jensen shrugs. "Did pretty well against Cinci."

"And I repeat: Do you really think Porter's up for playing in the playoffs?"

"I think Porter is our back-up plan," Jensen replies, voice quieter as he looks from Kripke to Jeff and back again. "He may be young and inexperienced, but he's the only one we've got right now. We have to be willing to use him if necessary."

He's met with silence for a long few moments before Kripke finally exhales and scribbles a note on the pad in front of him. Says, "Alright, let's see about working Porter into some of the seven-on-sevens this week. Whifield, I want you spending some time pairing him up with Chambers and Hodge."

"Got it," Charles says.

"Ackles, I still want you to have a little chat with Padalecki," Kripke continues, still writing as he talks. "You two are pretty tight, right? Maybe he just needs a night to relax and regroup. Make it casual, keep the football and team talk to a minimum and see what you can work out."

Jensen huffs a laugh. "Sounds very undercover."

"I still say he's seeing someone," Kripke replies, lips twitching in the smallest of grins. "In fact, I'd put money on it."

Still smirking faintly, Jensen shakes his head. But he can't say it doesn't make him wonder. Just a little. And he can't say his stomach doesn't twist uncomfortably at the thought of it.

"Alright, moving on," Kripke says then with a heavy breath. "Running game. I'd like to work in Felix a little more on second and third downs. Skip, tell me what we've got there."

:::

"Okay, good work, guys," Jensen says as he flips off the power on the digital screen and starts gathering his notes. "I want you all to spend tonight familiarizing yourselves with this pass defense. Watch the clips I sent you from every angle and pay close attention to their outside linebackers. They've got a lot of options working for them here; we don't want to be hit with any surprises."

Jared, Porter and Maryland all nod as they start packing up and Jensen follows suit, glancing over to catch his number one QB before he heads out. "Hey, Jared. Hang back for a second," he says as Maryland and Porter head for the door.

Jared's pauses in the middle of slinging his bag over his shoulder, eyebrow arched. The door shuts quietly behind the other two before he gives Jensen a faint smirk. "Why do I feel like you're about to send me to the principal's office?"

"Guilty conscience, maybe?" Jensen says, smiling a little. "You done something I should be worried about?"

"You mean aside from all the hookers and blow?"

"Just tell me you didn't kill anyone and we should be good."

"Well, I had a plant," Jared says, still clearly fighting a grin. "Pretty sure it died a couple months ago, but I bet there's enough circumstantial evidence to get me acquitted."

Laughing a little, Jensen just shakes head. "Anyway," he says pointedly, "I was wondering if you had any plans for New Year's."

"Uhm, not really," Jared says, his smile fading. "Think there's a party going on over at Aldis's place, but I was plannin' on staying in and hanging' with my dogs."

"Why not go to the party?"

Jared answers with a shrug and Jensen doesn't miss the way his shoulders stay tense. "Big game Sunday. Gotta stay focused, right?" It's not the truth, Jensen can tell that right away. Or it's at least not the whole truth. But before he can ask about it, Jared says, "What about you? Are you, uh... is Matt flyin' in? You guys got plans?"

The question comes off friendly enough, nothing in Jared's expression implying anything but polite inquiry. It still catches Jensen by surprise, though and he falters a second before shaking his head. "No, he's..." Jensen trails off for a moment and then takes a slow breath before meeting Jared's eyes again, chin tilted upward. "We're not really seeing each other anymore."

"Oh," Jared says. It's clear he hadn't been expecting that answer. "Sorry, I just. Assumed. Sorry."

Shrugging, Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. "It's fine. It wasn't all that serious anyway."

Jared only nods then, an uncomfortable silence wrapping around them before Jared clears his throat. Says, "Guess, uhm. Well, if you're free, you're welcome to come by. Keep me company. We can maybe call in pizza, drink a few beers, pass out before the ball drops..."

And just like that, the tension eases, Jensen huffing out a soft laugh as he nods. "Yeah, that's... I was kinda hopin' for something like that."

"Yeah?" Jared says, the hopeful tone in his voice making something in Jensen's chest squeeze tight.

"Got a thing for Ryan Seacrest, what can I say?"

Jared laughs then, quiet and warm as he pulls his bag up onto his shoulder. "Sounds like a plan, Coach."

:::

With Kripke seemingly attempting to make up for the holiday, practice on Thursday is more grueling than normal. Direct hits are kept to a minimum, but the pace is set higher and Kripke's shouts are louder enough that Jensen's ears are ringing by the time lunch rolls around.

Jeff leads a two-hour offensive review in the afternoon followed by position meetings and then a quick team wrap-up with Kripke. They once again go through the plan for Sunday, paying particular attention to what they'll be covering in Friday's walk-through.

"Now, I know what today is," he says as he starts wrapping up, "and I know I can't stop any of you from doing what you're gonna do. Just-- Keep your heads, alright? Be smart. We still have work to do and I need every single one of you to stay focused."

When he gets a few rumbles of agreement, Kripke's lips twitch into a grin. "Yeah, right. I'm sure you're all listening. Come on, let's take it out so we can go home. Ready on three-- one, two, three, COWBOYS!"

Jensen heads back to his office afterward, once again planting himself in front of his computer in preparation for a few more hours of work.

Somehow he's not surprised when Jared stops by minutes later, water bottle in hand as he knocks lightly at the opened door.

"Hey," Jensen says, oddly relieved for the tiny bit of distraction.

"Hey," Jared replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Just making sure we're still on for tonight."

Jensen's smile warms a little as he nods. "Yeah, I've just got a couple more things to do here," he says, waving vaguely at his computer and the notepad on his desk. "Got any particular time you want me to show up?"

"Whenever's fine," Jared says, looking visibly more relaxed though his smile is still a bit stilted and awkward. It reminds Jensen of what he probably looked like when he was fifteen and asking Jeanelle Dubinsky out to a movie. He's not entirely sure what to do with that.

"I'll, uh... aim for around nine," he says. That should give him enough time to finish up and stop by a liquor store on his way over. Maybe even grab a shower beforehand.

"Great," Jared says, the awkwardness sliding away as he flashes a dimpled smile and smacks his palm against the doorjamb. "Awesome. I'll catch you then."

Jensen watches him go, a familiar flutter settling low in his stomach and it takes awhile before he's able to concentrate again.

:::

He shows up a half hour earlier than planned, six pack in one hand and bottle of champagne in the other and is almost immediately trampled under the weight of eight paws.

"Hey, hey, hey. Come on now," Jared says, swatting lightly at Harley's rear end while kneeing Sadie gently in the side. "Calm down. Give the man some room."

"It's cool," Jensen says, grinning wide as he hands off the beer to Jared and lets Harley nose and lick at his fingers while Sadie sniffs his knee.

"I was just about to order pizza," Jared says as heads into the kitchen. "Got any requests?"

"Nah, you know what I like," Jensen says, realizing half a beat later how true that statement is as Jared jokingly calls out from the kitchen, "One veggie pizza, no sauce, no cheese comin' right up!"

After Jared's placed their order, they head downstairs to sprawl out in his lavish theater room, the dogs trampling down after them. He's completely unsurprised when they both curl up in their owns seats as Jared prepares drinks at the wet bar.

"What, my beer not good enough for you?" Jensen remarks as Jared brings over two glasses of scotch.

Grinning, Jared hands over one glass before settling into his seat. "Special occasion, man. Not often we turn over a new year; we'll do beer when we run out of the good stuff."

"I'm hurt."

"Mmm," Jared says as he takes a sip, face twisting into an amusing grimace as he swallows. "Know who gave me this bottle?"

"If you name any world leader I might punch you in the face."

"Better," he says and Jensen arches an eyebrow. "Quentin Tarantino."

"You are so completely full of shit."

Laughing, Jared raises a hand in supplication. "Swear to God, dude. Apparently he's a big fan. Who knew?"

"Well, no accounting for taste," Jensen says before lifting his glass in a mock cheer and taking a sip. It burns deliciously as it goes down and Jensen hisses and gives a rough shake of his head before breaking into a quick laugh. "Jesus. Yeah. Okay."

The pizza arrives an hour or so later and by then they're already engrossed in ABC's countdown broadcast. Or at least engrossed in mocking just about every musical act and celebrity appearance, occasionally donning random character voices for added effect. Jared does a spot-on impression of Christopher Walken that nearly has Jensen shooting scotch out his nose and Jensen has a few choice things to say about the latest Disney kid-pop group.

"Are they even old enough to be up this late?"

"Dude, _everyone_ is old enough to be up this late on New Year's Eve. I remember being, like, _five_ and staying up for this shit."

"Well, that's because you had horrible parents. I mean, look how you turned out."

Jared snorts a laugh and then carefully pushes himself to his feet, groaning from the effort. He grabs Jensen's empty glass as he walks past and starts mixing something new as Jensen turns his attention back to the television.

They're both on their third or fourth drink and, while Jensen's not exactly drunk yet, he knows he's only a step or two away. Which is probably bad. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought this might happen. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't hoped for it at least a little bit.

Jared comes back with their drinks just as Sidekick Smile are finally wrapping up their poor excuse for a rock song, and Jensen reaches for his glass gratefully, knocking back a large swallow.

"Shoulda made a drinking game outta this," Jared says as he drops back onto his chair.

"Mmm," Jensen agrees, the burn warming his chest all over again. "Next year."

There's a pause then and he glances over to see Jared just staring for a second. Then he blinks and his lips curl into a slow smile, cheeks splotchy from booze as he lets out a rough laugh. "Yeah," he says, quiet. Like it's a revelation. "Next year. Definitely."

Jensen feels a new flood of warmth in his belly then and he's pretty sure it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

What's left of the pizza has gone cold by the time the countdown starts and Jensen bites into an abandoned piece of crust as he watches the screen, head bobbing in time with the people in Times Square screaming out the numbers.

 _Three... two... one..._

"Happy New Year!" Jared shouts beside him, arms raised like he's just scored a touchdown and Jensen laughs, holds up his half-eaten pizza crust.

Jared's theater screen is nothing but a blur of crowd and lights and the flickering of confetti drifting through the New York air. "Auld Lang Syne" plays in the background while Ryan Seacrest blabbers on about something Jensen's not really paying attention to and when he glances over, Jared's looking straight at him, eyes soft and a little hazy-looking, lips quirked in a small grin.

Jensen stares right back for a long moment, heartbeat kicking up a notch and blood thrumming before he turns away with a rough laugh. "I should get going."

"You drove," Jared reminds him, tone low with amusement.

Jensen blinks and has to take a second to figure out why that matters. "Shit," he says then, shoulders slumping. "Okay, that was poor planning."

Shaking his head, Jared laughs and pushes up to his feet, gives Jensen's shoulder a quick pat. "Dude, I've got two guest rooms. You can take your pick."

And Jensen knows he's well and truly drunk when he has to physically stop himself from saying his pick is Jared's room. But he does manage it, giving into a strained kind of laugh instead as gets to his feet.

Together they clean up the dinner mess, gathering pizza boxes, napkins and glasses and carrying them upstairs. Jared lets the dogs out and then pours Jensen a glass of water.

He can feel Jared eying him as he takes a drink, which is why he isn't really all that surprised when Jared suddenly steps in close and presses him back against the counter.

"Forgot something," he says, nearly a whisper, before leaning in to press a kiss to Jensen's mouth.

It's nearly chaste, just a brush of lips on lips. Soft and almost tentative.

But then there's another, lingering as he brings up a hand to Jensen's face, fingertips grazing the skin of his cheek. Another kiss as Jared shifts the angle, another with Jared's breath warm on his lips, another as Jensen tips his head back and feels the scratch of stubble and fucking _whimpers_. Another as Jared's tongue slips into his mouth and Jensen nearly drops his glass of water to the floor in his attempt to set it aside, another as he finally gets his hands on Jared's shirt, gripping it in fistfuls as Jensen tries his hardest to climb into Jared's mouth and never ever leave.

Jared's the first to break away and Jensen sways forward even as his lungs scream in relief from the sudden rush of oxygen.

Dazed, Jensen blinks his eyes open, sees the pink swell of Jared's lips and immediately grips the back of his neck with one hand and hauls him in for more. Jared growls, easily giving as good as he's getting and Jensen's other hand scrambles to push up under Jared's shirt.

Jared shudders against him, muscles tightening beneath Jensen's fingertips and then he shifts, slides a thigh between Jensen's spread legs and rocks forward.

"Ah, _fuck_."

It comes out a whisper, hushed against Jared's mouth as he tightens his grip on Jared's hair.

Jared does it again, a slow, easy roll of his hips and Jensen arches into it, sucking at Jared's tongue as his other hand slides around to the dip of Jared's back. "God, Jared," he groans and Jared's teeth scrape his jaw. "Please. I want. I want it."

Those are apparently the magic words as Jared all but melts against him, hands and mouth everywhere, touching and licking and _claiming_ in a way Jensen's sure he's never felt before. Jensen's t-shirt is nearly ripped in half as Jared yanks it off and the brush of cool air is immediately overpowered by Jared's hands roaming from his shoulders down his arms and along his back, Jared's mouth laving at his collarbone and down his chest, tip of his tongue brushing the peak of Jensen's nipple.

Jensen feels like putty in Jared's hands, mindless and pliant as Jared kisses and sucks his way back up to Jensen's mouth and then licks him open all over again.

"Please," Jensen begs again once Jared lets him up for air and then immediately shudders when Jared's hand drops down to squeeze him through his jeans. "Jared. Yeah, c'mon...."

"Tell me," Jared whispers, breath hot against Jensen's cheek. "Anything. Anything you want."

There's something in Jared's tone, a tremor that hits Jensen hard even in his drunken state, punches the breath right out of him. Because this isn't Jared just offering sex. This isn't about right here and right now, a quick, drunken fuck in Jared's kitchen. This is Jared offering something a whole lot more dangerous.

"Jensen."

Blinking, Jensen sucks in a gulp of air and then surges forward, both hands grabbing hold of Jared's shirt as his hips arch, mouths crashing in a rushed, fierce kiss.

"Need you to fuck me," he pants against the corner of Jared's mouth and the force with which Jared bucks against him is nearly bruising, startling out a huff of a laugh. "Jesus, okay. Not here."

Jared pulls back then, though reluctantly, his hands still spread wide on Jensen's sides, chest heaving with every shuddered breath. "Bedroom?"

Jensen grins. "Do I still get to pick which one?"

Jared looks confused for a second, a crease forming between his brows before he remembers and breathes a laugh, the tail end of it tickling Jensen's lips. "Just, uh. I gotta let the dogs in, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Jared kisses him again, soft and almost sweet before he finally lets go to head into the other room. Jensen watches him leave, the loss of contact making him finally capable of thinking a little more clearly. With a slightly shaky hand, he takes a few more sips of water and then dumps out the rest. He sets the glass in the sink and hunches forward, braces himself with one hand as he runs the other over his face.

He can hear the clatter of dog nails on hardwood coming from the other room and the low hush of Jared's voice as he speaks to them. It's only a few more seconds before Jared's back in the kitchen, bare feet quiet on the tile, though Jensen can sense his presence instantly.

Jared stops only a couple feet away and Jensen glances over, blood still thrumming hot through his veins and stomach twisting tight.

"You, uh... having second thoughts?"

He looks about as wound up as Jensen feels, hair disheveled and t-shirt stretched from where Jensen had been tugging at it. His lips are puffy and his cheeks are tinged a splotchy pink and he's the single hottest thing Jensen's ever seen. Jensen's fingers itch to touch and he knows it's a bad idea, knows that if they do this and it all goes wrong, it could easily be the end of both their careers. He's out, but Jared isn't. He's a coach and Jared is his _player_ and there are so many reasons they shouldn't do this that Jensen barely knows where to _start_.

Jared's the mistake he made ten years ago and Jensen feels like he's on the brink of making it yet again. He just doesn't know if the real harm will come in giving into temptation or in denying himself what he knows he wants.

"Jensen," Jared says after the silence apparently stretches too long. Only a whisper, but it's still loud in Jensen's ears and he blinks to attention, cheeks heating.

Jared hasn't moved any closer, but his expression hides nothing, laid bare and silently pleading.

And Jensen gives in.


	12. Chapter 12

Falling into Jared's bed is like tripping onto an enormous pillow. It molds to Jensen's weight and shape, the sheets underneath his bare skin ridiculously soft. He's still buzzed from the scotch and blindingly aroused and he feels a little like he's drowning.

Then Jared's right there on top of him, miles of warm, bare skin holding him down and Jensen wraps his arms around Jared's shoulders and laughs.

"What?" Jared says, grinning as he nips at Jensen's bottom lip.

Jensen shakes his head and tilts his chin, slips his tongue into Jared's open mouth and grinds upward. Jared's slick and hard against him, a trail of pre-come dragging across Jensen's stomach and he fumbles a hand down between them, wanting to touch the source, feel Jared hot and heavy in his grip.

But with a grunt, Jared stops him, weight shifting as he grabs Jensen's wrist and holds it down, ducks to bite at the skin just below Jensen's ear. "Touch me and I'll come right here," he says, voice shaky and rough.

Swallowing, Jensen manages to catch his breath and then huffs out a strained laugh as he arches up for more. "Wouldn't want that."

Events blur then, melt from one image to another: Jared over him, kissing and breathing into him with soft, stilted whimpers, one hand curled tight around Jensen's wrist; the top of Jared's head, hair thick and wild as he ducks down to lick and nip at Jensen's nipple; the dark ceiling above as Jared slides lower to wrap a hand around Jensen's cock, mouth sucking into the soft skin of Jensen's inner thigh.

"Jared. Fuck. Jared."

He doesn't know where Jared gets the lube, doesn't remember him leaving long enough to retrieve anything, though it's possible Jensen's still hazy enough from the alcohol that he could've missed it. Not that it even really matters. One slick finger nudges at his hole and he instinctively spreads his legs wider, breath catching as Jared slips it in past the first knuckle.

It's not nearly enough, not even close to all he wants and he bucks helplessly, the heel of one foot sinking into the plush mattress.

"Don't fuckin'-- God, Jared, just get _in_ me."

He's immediately rewarded with the quick stab of Jared's finger inside him, Jared crooking it slightly and Jensen gasps, his whole body jolting with pleasure.

"Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous."

Whining, Jensen shakes his head and rocks his hips, doing what he can to work himself on Jared's finger. "If you don't fuck me _right now_ , I swear to God I will bench your ass for the entire playoffs."

It's an empty threat and they both know it, but it seems to get the point across all the same, Jared releasing a low, heavy growl as he slides his finger free, leaving Jensen spread wide and panting. Jensen takes the few seconds of reprieve to catch his breath, skin still buzzing with bone-deep arousal and blinding need. He's aware of every one of Jared's movements, can feel the shift of his weight on the mattress, hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper and the whisper of skin on skin as Jared slides it on.

When Jared touches him again, hands warm and soft on Jensen's thighs, he can't help but groan, his dick twitching against his belly, spurting a tiny dribble of pre-come in anticipation.

His head is swimming, every nerve in his body drawn tight and Jensen rolls his head to glance down just as Jared's tongue drags up the length of Jensen's dick, hair tickling Jensen's stomach as he wraps his lips tight around the tip.

"Oh shit," Jensen says, body seizing from the shock of it as much as the pleasure, his hand immediately dropping to the back of Jared's neck. "God, _yeah_. Suck me. _Suck_ me."

When Jared growls, Jensen feels the vibration in his balls and the base of his spine, pleasure shooting down to his toes and coiling. He brushes a thumb over Jared's cheek, feels where he's sliding along inside and the spit-slick stretch of Jared's mouth around him and nearly loses it right there.

"Jared-- oh shit, I'm-- _Jared_."

He gets a hum in response and Jared squeezes his thigh before backing off, tongue flicking playfully at the head. "Not yet," he whispers and Jensen thinks he really can't be blamed for the whine that rips through his throat.

Giving a low, throaty chuckle, Jared only ducks to press a kiss to the crease of Jensen's thigh and pelvis before sitting up. With some effort, Jensen pushes up to his elbows and groans again as he takes in the sight of Jared slicking himself up, hand working quick and methodical over his latex-covered cock.

It's both familiar and startlingly new all at once and it hits Jensen again just how long it's been since he's had this. And how long he's been wanting it.

He startles a little when Jared scoots closer, but quickly recovers, letting Jared drape one of Jensen's legs over his shoulder as he pulls in a slow, deep breath, the tip of Jared's dick slipping over him, nudging lightly in a gentle tease.

"Jared." It's part demand and part warning and Jared's lips quirk into a soft grin in response.

And then Jared's pressing in, slow and hard and so fucking _thick_ and Jensen feels like his entire body is on fire. It hurts just as much as it always does, dull shocks of pain coursing through his veins as Jared stuffs him full. He tries to remember to breathe, every inhale sending another jolt of pain all through him.

"Oh my god," Jared says in quiet awe. And then he's moving, easing gently back before Jensen even gives the go-ahead. It's a little jarring, catching Jensen before he's ready, but it's a relief too, his muscles relaxing little by little.

When he opens his eyes, he notices Jared staring down between them. He has one hand on Jensen's hip, the other wrapped around his thigh and he's covered in sweat, muscles standing out in stark relief as he struggles to hold himself in control. The fall of his hair blocks Jensen's view of his eyes and Jensen whimpers quietly, grapples at the sheets beneath him and tries to arch his hips.

It's enough to make Jared glance up, eyes locking on Jensen's. "Too much?"

"No," Jensen says, voice strangled. It's not really a lie if only because he knows it'll get so much better soon enough.

Jared looks hesitant for another few seconds longer, keeping still with Jensen's ass stretched around only a few inches until he finally breaks and thrusts forward, no restraint this time as he presses in deep, bottoming out with an aching groan.

Jensen cries out with another jolt of pain and reaches up to dig his fingers into Jared's shoulder.

"Okay?" Jared asks, rough and hushed, eyes wide.

Jensen can only answer with another whine. He feels shredded, strung out and trembling with only Jared's weight holding him together before he manages a nod. Jared eases back once again and Jensen clings tight, willing himself to relax before Jared fucks back into him. This time it's easier, the pain lessened under the sharp jolt of pleasure when Jared hits his prostate.

" _Fuck_."

"Yeah," Jared groans, setting a pace then, a slow slide in and out. There's no slap of skin on skin, only the ragged, harsh sounds of their mingled grunts as they fall into a broken rhythm.

Jensen's come just like this in the past, with nothing but a hard cock splitting him open and the friction of a flat, smooth stomach against his own dick. It's been awhile since he's managed that, long enough that he seriously doubts he can still do it, but right now, with Jared above him and in him and all around him, he finds he really doesn't give a shit. He could do just this, stay laid out with Jared fucking into him until the end of time and be perfectly, blissfully happy.

Jared, however, apparently doesn't share the sentiment.

Instead, he shifts, sliding out before Jensen even knows what's really going on, leaving him empty and unsatisfied. He blinks back the sting of sweat in his eyes and tries to sit up. "Wait, what're you--"

"Turn over," Jared says, voice gruff. His hair is sticking to the sides of his face, chest flushed a deep red and he has one hand wrapped tight around the base of his dick, condom still slick with lube.

The sight makes any kind of protest Jensen might've considered die on his lips and he immediately rolls onto his stomach, knees bent and spread, hips tilted upward as he looks back over his shoulder. In the silence of the room, he hears Jared suck in a sharp breath and then there's a broad hand on the back of Jensen's thigh, fingers sliding up higher to the rise of his ass. A little higher and he can feel Jared spreading his cheeks, thumb tracing along the sensitive skin just behind Jensen's balls.

His face flaming with a mix of arousal and naked vulnerability, Jensen turns into the mattress, tries to smother his whimper as Jared's thumb presses into him.

"God, Jensen. Missed this. So fucking much."

Jared's voice is barely above a whisper, scratchy and rough and Jensen clenches his eyes tight as he rocks his hips back, fingers twisting in the sheets in an effort to hold on.

Another gasp of air and he manages to find the ability to speak again, still writhing as he says, "Jared. Jared, please. C'mon. _Please_."

He sighs with relief when Jared's thumb slips free, callused fingers curling over the spur of his hip, tilting him higher. And then Jared's breaching him again, sliding in with no hestitancy at all this time, no resistance, just fitting himself perfectly into Jensen's ass. The angle is better this way, the pain all but completely absent as Jared rolls his hips to rub right up inside him, setting every nerve in Jensen's body on fire.

Jensen gets his elbows under him and rocks back, taking Jared as deep as he can manage, mindlessly whimpering and groaning with every push. Jared's folded over him, weight held on one hand, the other gripping Jensen's side as he pounds in, breath hot against the back of Jensen's neck.

He's muttering quiet, stilted words that Jensen can barely make out. Jensen's name and _fuck_ and _need_ all mixed together, rising in pitch until Jensen knows, until he _feels_ the second Jared topples over the brink, thrusting in hard and staying there, his dick pulsing in the tight clench of Jensen's ass.

"Oh, Jesus," Jensen groans, blood still thrumming hot through his veins. His dick is achingly hard, trapped between the mattress and his stomach and the friction is incredible, but it's nowhere near enough to get him off. Jared's still inside him, still buried to the hilt as he shudders through his orgasm and Jensen needs to come so bad he could cry.

Just as he's working a hand down between himself and the bed, he feels Jared raise up, hips easing back to pull himself free and he groans all over again, shivering violently at the sudden gaping loss.

Jared shushes him, voice warm and quiet and Jensen lets himself be manhandled onto his back, arms falling loose as he blinks up at Jared.

"I got you," Jared assures him, cocky grin curving his lips as he smoothes a hand down Jensen's hip and in, fingertips brushing his balls, heavy and drawn up tight against his body.

" _Jared_."

"Shh," Jared says again, his touch almost torturous as he completely ignores Jensen's dick in favor of fondling his balls and the skin just beneath.

"Jared. Jared, I can't-- _Please_."

Frustrated, Jensen reaches down to take care of it himself, but Jared swats his hand away and then lets his fingers slip further back, two of them nudging and then easing right back into Jensen's ass as Jared's lips wrap tight around him, soft and wet and firm, taking him in deep.

Jensen cries out and shatters just like that, back bowed as every nerve and cell in his body is set ablaze.

When he comes to some time later, Jared's pressed up against his side, a line of heat from shoulder to ankle. He's already sore, muscles and ass aching pleasantly and he pulls in a deep breath. The air around them reeks, musky with sweat and sex and humid breath. He wrinkles his nose in faint disgust.

Beside him, Jared chuckles, low and warm. Brushes a kiss to Jensen's shoulder, lips lingering against the skin there as he says, "Shower?"

"Mmm," Jensen responds. "Sponge bath. Can't move."

"I'll take that as confirmation of a job well done."

Jensen breathes in slow, eyelids drifting closed once more. "Can take it however you want."

He's barely conscious enough to notice when Jared rolls away, mattress shifting under the redistribution of weight. He hums softly in argument, but keeps his eyes closed, content to wallow in the loose, sated post-orgasm haze. At least until Jared returns with a warm, damp washcloth, the feel of it brushing over his thighs making him blink awake.

Jared glances up briefly, like he's checking to make sure it's okay, before he continues, cleaning Jensen's groin and stomach before bending down to press a light kiss just below his navel. Then another about an inch higher, another higher yet as he gradually works his way up to Jensen's collarbone. Jensen grins and lets out a breathy laugh as Jared's mouth meets his in a slow and unhurried kiss. Jensen recognizes the taste of himself on Jared's tongue and groans weakly, eyes slipping shut.

He has no idea how long they stay like that, Jared draped over him and mouths locked together, but sleep inevitably drags him under, deep kisses melting away to light brushes of lips on lips, legs tangled together and Jared's arm a pleasing weight across his chest.

:::

Jensen wakes up in the morning with scratchy eyes and a steady pounding in his temples. He's alone in a huge, soft bed and the clock on the stand next to him declares it's not yet 6:00, meaning he has an hour and a half before he needs to be at Valley Ranch.

Groaning, Jensen flops back down, squirms a little under the covers and finds he's sore literally _everywhere_.

"Hey, you're up."

He lifts his head up at the sound of Jared's voice, but only gives a grunt of affirmation. Jared's standing in the doorway of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips and hair damp from his shower. He's shaving. Jensen takes a moment to admire the view.

"You've got about an hour or so, right?" Jared says, words slightly muddled behind the wall separating them as Jared leans in closer to the mirror. "Want me to make you breakfast?"

Jensen frowns and rubs the heel of his hand against his eye before remembering that's a bad idea with his contacts still in. "You cook?"

"I serve a seriously mean Cap'n Crunch," Jared says, leaning back to flash Jensen a bright grin.

Despite himself, Jensen chuckles. He peels himself from the bed moments later, wincing at the pull of aching muscles as he stumbles toward the bathroom. He takes a piss as Jared continues shaving and asks if he can use the shower.

"I'll grab you a towel," Jared says, still smiling at him through the mirror.

He feels a little more human once he's cleaned up, though there's still a persistent throb beneath his skull and his ass is definitely still tender. But it's not bad. Almost weirdly pleasant.

His clothes are scattered all over Jared's room and it takes him awhile to find them all. Luckily, he'd managed to stop by his own place and change before heading over to Jared's so he's not stuck wearing the same clothes he wore to practice. That might've looked more than a little suspicious. It's still not ideal, but it's better than nothing and it shouldn't be too strenuous of a day anyway. He'll make it work.

The smell of bacon and coffee greets him the second he steps out of Jared's bedroom and two seconds later, Harley's there to wish him a good morning.

"Figured a little grease would do you good," Jared says when Jensen steps into the kitchen.

Letting out a quiet laugh of disbelief, Jensen shakes his head. "If you're tryin' to get me to propose, this is a damn good tactic."

Jared throws him another grin. Says, "Damn. And here I thought I was being subtle."

They eat in a comfortable silence, Jared occasionally ripping off pieces of bacon to toss to the dogs as Jensen nurses his coffee. It's not the best cup he's ever had, but it's still pretty impressive; Jared's clearly learned a few tricks in the past few years.

"So, uh," Jared says after awhile, glancing up from his plate. "We should probably, like... figure out where we stand here, right?"

Coffee cup still pressed to his lips, Jensen arches an eyebrow.

"I mean, this wasn't-- for _me_ , this wasn't..." Jared trails off then, his smile faltering for the first time all morning before he sucks in a shaky breath, drags his eyes up to meet Jensen's again. "I want this, Jensen. I really... come on, man, help me out here. What're you thinking?"

Jensen sets down his mug, though he keeps his hands cupped around it and takes in a slow, steadying breath. He feels like he's already faced this question and made his choice.

It seems a lot more terrifying in the daylight. And while sober.

"I'm thinking this is a profoundly bad idea," he says, voice completely calm and even. Jared opens his mouth to respond, but Jensen continues before he can get a word in. "If anyone -- I mean _anyone_ \-- were to find out... well, I'd be immediately out of a job and you'd be fast on your way to the same. The media would blow a fucking fuse."

"They already know about you, though. They can't--"

"I'm your _coach_ , Jared."

"And I'm a willing adult fully capable of making my own goddamn decisions!" Jared replies, a flash of anger making his voice rise. "It's not like you _molested_ me."

"I'm still in a position of authority," Jensen says, voice firm. "I'm still essentially your _boss_. It just doesn't look good."

"I don't give a fuck what it looks like."

"Well, I _do_ ," Jensen replies, his voice a little sharper than intended. "And you can bet your ass Jerry Jones does, too. I kind of enjoy my job, Jared; I'd like to keep it."

That manages to shut Jared up for awhile as a distinctly tense silence settles between them. Jensen takes another sip of his coffee and Jared finally caves, hope creasing his brows as he leans in.

"Okay. Okay, so we're just... we'll be careful. We can do that, right? We've done it before."

Jensen's lips twitch at that uncomfortable reminder, but he nods all the same. Because it's not a lie; they've definitely done it before. And, as far as he's aware, no one had ever suspected. Not even Sandy.

But this is different.

"We could," he says, voice tentative. "But it's not-- Jared, the whole reason I came out in the first place was so I could finally _stop_ having to be so damn careful all the time."

Jared doesn't say anything in response for a long moment, his lips a thin, angry line before he huffs out a strained laugh. "Great, so... what, we just forget about it? Go on like everything's normal?"

"Fuck, I'm not saying _no_ , okay?" Jensen snaps.

"Well, it sure as hell sounds like it to me."

"I'm saying that nobody can know. _Nobody_. No one can even fucking _suspect_. Even if that means acting like we can barely tolerate each other when we're out in public. Do you get that?"

Jared seems frozen for a second, his expression flickering between cautiously hopeful and suspicious before he finally manages a nod.

"Okay?" Jensen asks, gaze locked on Jared's, needing a concrete, verbal confirmation that Jared truly understands.

And Jared gives it to him, his nod quick and decisive, a reluctant grin curving his lips as he says, "Okay. Absolutely."

Jensen eyes him for another long moment before slowly managing to relax. "Okay," he says before taking another, longer sip of his coffee.

It's still a profoundly bad idea, but Jensen's starting to think the alternative is far more unbearable.

:::

Friday's practice is largely uneventful aside from how Jensen spends a good portion of it trying not to think about how he'd spent the night before fucking his starting QB. He's clearly not the only one distracted as nearly everyone is just a little bit slower than normal, more than a few wearing sunglasses through the morning meeting and cursing louder during walk-throughs. It's just about what all the coaches expected, but Kripke is still fairly annoyed and voices his displeasure as they're wrapping up for the night.

They get their itinerary for the weekend, the departure times and hotel and flight information, all stuff Jensen already knows and has programmed into his phone and Kripke closes them out on another short speech, disappointed irritation still clear in his tone.

"I realize this isn't a make or break game," he says, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. "Some of you may think we can just go in there half-assed and worry about turning up the heat in the playoffs. Well, that idea is _shit_ , alright? Our first game is two weeks away and we're not yet finished with our job _here_. We want guaranteed home field advantage, we want to be the top seed in the NFC and the only way we're getting that is by winning. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," the group replies, a low rumble of affirmation.

"No! Not good enough! Show me you actually fucking _mean_ it!"

"YES, SIR!"

"Still have my doubts!"

" _YES! SIR!_ "

It's a boom that time, the shouts of sixty grown men shaking the walls. Jensen bites back a grin as Kripke finally looks satisfied, his beady eyes still a little wild as he sucks in a breath.

"Alright. Good. Let's call it out."

The flight home is nearly totally silent, everyone quietly licking their wounded egos as they head back to Dallas. Jared has his left arm in a sling, his face twisted in pain even with the anti-inflammatories running through his system.

When they arrive at DFW, Kripke spends only a minute or two relaying their immediate plans. He sounds more tired than angry, which probably has as much to do with the time as anything else. The team is given one day off with explicit instructions to start up again early Tuesday morning.

"So generous," Jared mutters as he grabs his bag with his good arm. Jared doesn't normally bitch about practice times, but Jensen doesn't question it, just takes his own bag as he stands up in the cramped cabin.

"You can get home okay?"

Jared nods and then winces a little as the movement apparently puts a strain on his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll just grab a cab."

"I could drive you if you want. No big deal."

Jared seems to consider it for a second, lips pinched in a thin like before he gives a tiny shake of his head and says, "No, I'm good. Thanks anyway, Coach."

Intellectually, Jensen knows it's the best answer, the _right_ answer, but he can't deny the slight sting. Still he pastes on a smile, going for warm and sympathetic and says, "Take care of yourself, alright? I'll call you tomorrow."

:::

"Type I acromioclavicular separation," Jeff reads off in the coaches meeting Monday afternoon. "No severe tearing of the ligament, no fracture. Treatment is rest, ice and plenty of anti-inflammatory medication and painkillers."

"Okay," Kripke says, nodding as he scribbles notes on his pad. "And the bad news?"

"Full recovery takes four to six weeks."

Kripke only gives a half a nod to that and then leans back with a heavy breath. "There is no way we can start Porter in a playoff game."

"Well, Jared's a quick healer," Jeff points out. "For all we know, he'll be right back to one hundred percent come game day."

Jensen nods. "And even if he isn't, he'll lie and say he is."

Kripke laughs at that, just a huff of air as his lips twitch into a slight grin. "Yeah, alright. Let's take it easy on him this week. No field work, only meetings and PT sessions once the swelling's gone down. I want him in with Misha and the others every day and we'll reassess next Monday."

Nodding, Jensen writes it all down and the meeting quickly moves to the next topic.

He fills Jared in later that night when he stops by with a bulging bag of Whataburger.

"Dude," Jared says, answering the door in only his boxers, arm still draped in a sling. "Don't you have game film to be analyzing?"

"I do," Jensen says, stepping in with a grin. "But it turns out babysitting injured starting QBs is also in my job description. So here we are."

They set up camp in Jared's living room, television tuned to the Cartoon Network as they scarf down their dinner. Jensen tells Jared the plan and Jared puts up little argument, meticulously re-arranging his crumbling cheeseburger with one hand before bringing it back up to his mouth.

"How's Porter taking this?" he asks, words muffled around a large bite.

Jensen shrugs. "He's holdin' up. Think he wants you to recover even more than the rest of us. Vikings pulled a number on him, you know?"

"Did the best he could."

"Yeah, well," Jensen says on a quiet breath. "His best still got our asses kicked."

He doesn't mention how the score might not have been much different had Jared stayed in the game but, judging by Jared's raised eyebrow, he's fairly sure he's not the only one thinking it.

"You want another beer?" Jared asks as he pushes up to his feet and heads to the kitchen.

"Sit your ass down," Jensen calls after him, quickly gathering the mess of food wrappers and hurrying after him. "I can get my own beer, you invalid."

"Dude, it's just my shoulder," Jared says, grinning as he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle, eyes glinting with mischief as he adds, "I've still got a fully functional right hand, you know."

"And I've bet you're putting it to good use," Jensen says, not bothering to hide his own grin.

"Well, you know. As my coach, you should be taking care of me. Make sure I don't end up straining something else by overcompensating."

Jensen laughs. "That's your trainer's job," he says, reaching out to hook a finger in the waistband of Jared's boxers.

"Ah," Jared says, nodding slowly as he steps in closer, his injured arm settling against Jensen's chest. "So then why are you here?"

Jensen shrugs and glances down between them, gives Jared's boxers an experimental tug before twisting his wrist to cup his hand over the bulge of Jared's cock, biting back a grin when he feels Jared twitch against his palm.

He ends up on his knees moments later, Jared's boxers down around mid-thigh, the muscles in his right arm straining as he braces himself against the counter. Jensen watches him, eyes raised the whole time as he takes Jared in as deep as he can manage, savoring the thick weight on his tongue, the bump of it against the back of his throat. Jared's as big as he remembers, bigger than Jensen can really take, but it doesn't stop him from trying for more, occasionally gagging himself as a result until he settles for wrapping a hand around what he can't reach.

He keeps it slow, pulling off every few bobs to duck down and lick at Jared's balls, sucking one into his mouth and then the other, nose buried in the rough curls of Jared's pubic hair. He drags his tongue up the length, tracing a vein from the root to the flare of his cockhead and then sucking just the tip, tongue working the tiny slit, tasting a faintly familiar salty sweetness.

Above him, Jared groans and whimpers, abs clenched tight as he tries to keep himself under control, Jensen's name falling from his lips over and over.

Jensen's hard in his jeans, but it's a pleasant kind of ache, one that doesn't need any immediate attention and he takes Jared into his mouth again, humming his approval when Jared gives a quick, abortive thrust of his hips.

"Fuck. I can't. _Jensen_."

He glances up again to see the pinched look on Jared's face and honestly can't tell if it's from pleasure or pain, wonders if he should stop, maybe get Jared horizontal before continuing. But then Jared gives another slow rock of his hips, breath hitching as Jensen takes him in and he knows there's no stopping now. Closing his eyes, Jensen hollows his cheeks and squares his shoulders, concentrates on working the hand on Jared's shaft as he sucks the rest, hungry for it, focused on nothing but the smooth, hard weight of Jared's dick on his tongue, the tremble of him under his fingertips, the stilted, pained sounds falling from Jared's lips.

Jared comes seconds later, a hot, bitter burst that slides down the back of Jensen's throat. Groaning, Jensen pulls back, struggling to catch his breath as he jerks Jared through it, strings of jizz landing on his chin and dirtying his t-shirt. Leaning in, Jensen wraps his lips around the head of Jared's dick one last time, sucking out the last few drops as he fumbles with the buttons of his own jeans, finally freeing and wrapping a hand around himself.

When Jared hisses, he pulls away, panting roughly as he arches back, thrusts his hips into the tight circle of his hand. It only takes a few rough strokes before he's coming, folding in on himself as it rips through him.

"Jesus."

Still shuddering through the aftershocks, Jensen blinks his eyes open to see Jared staring down at him, dick hanging out of his boxers and chest heaving. Jensen only groans in response and then rolls his head down to glance at himself. He looks ridiculous with his jeans open and t-shirt a mess and a laugh bubbles free as he drags his gaze up to Jared's.

But Jared isn't laughing. Jared's just staring at him, eyes dark and wide, only a small hint of a grin curling his lip.

"Watching you come is seriously the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Snorting a laugh, Jensen ignores the throb of pain in his knees as he gets to his feet and then grimaces at the uncomfortable dampness of his boxers. He wipes his dirty hand across Jared's bare chest and says, "Got pretty low standards there, Padalecki."

"I'm gonna fuck you in front of a mirror next time. Make you see."

Despite the fact that there's no way in hell Jensen will be getting it up again anytime soon, his body still goes warm all over and he crowds in close to Jared, head tilted up for a kiss Jared is all too eager to give him. Overly aware of the arm Jared has slung between them, Jensen keeps it slow and careful, backing off with a grin when Jared tries to press it deeper.

"Should be about time for you to put some ice on that," he says, licking the mix of himself and Jared off his bottom lip as he runs light fingers over Jared's bicep.

"Yeah," Jared says, sighing quietly as he tugs at Jensen's waist with his good arm. "Soon."

"Now," Jensen replies, struggling only a little to put on his most authoritative face. "I'm gonna get cleaned up and steal a shirt."

"You're the worst coach ever," Jared shouts out to him as Jensen exits the kitchen, grinning.

:::

Practice the next week is kept at half-pace. With their opponent not yet known, they have no way of devising any real game plan so instead, they focus on general schemes and improvement areas while examining the missteps from the Minnesota game.

Jensen spends most of his week with Porter and Maryland, Jared occasionally on the sidelines when he's not busy in PT with Misha. It's a slow week, but productive. By Friday, Jared's out of the sling and showing marked improvement. As is Porter. The kid had taken the Vikings beating pretty hard, but he'd shown up to practice on Tuesday with a new resolve, jaw clenched and chin tilted in determination.

"Mom always told me the stuff that don't kill me makes me stronger," he'd explained to Jensen. "And that game definitely didn't kill me, so."

Jensen had laughed and clapped a hand on Porter's shoulder. "I've seen bigger QBs play worse, man. You held up pretty well."

"Yeah, well I can do better," Porter had said and has since made it his mission to prove as much. And, though Jensen's impressed by the kid's attitude, he can't help hoping Jared will still start the game. Enthusiasm can only take them so far.

Kripke rewards the team with a weekend break. "I want you all to relax," he says. "Clear your heads, chill with your families, have a barbecue, get laid. Whatever you need so long as it's legal."

"Coach," Campo says then, interrupting with a raised hand before addressing the players. "I'm gonna be showing all the wildcard games at my place. There'll be beer and food, anyone's welcome to stop by. Kids, too."

Kripke nods and turns back to the group. "Game viewing at Campo's Saturday and Sunday. That's, uh... Bills and Jets, and Lions and Niners on Saturday, right? Sunday is the Bucs and Giants and... who'm I missing?"

"Cleveland and Denver," Jared says from his spot near the front of the room.

"Go Browns!" someone shouts from the back, sending a ripple of laughter through the room.

Even Kripke's lips twitch into a grin and he nods before trying to bring the meeting back to order. "Alright, okay. I know we'll all be paying closer attention to the two NFC games, but don't get yourselves all worked up over what we can't control. We're gonna get who we get, nothing we can do about it. Now go home. Go home!"

:::

Jensen doesn't watch either of the Saturday games. Instead, he spends a few hours hanging out with his nephews, first seeing the latest Brad Kelick movie, which in Jensen's opinion, is a bad rip-off of every Judd Apatow film ever made, and then killing a few more at the only arcade left in the city.

His phone buzzes with a text as they're heading back to Josh and Allie's house and Jensen checks it at a stoplight.

' _Jets 23, Bills 16. NFC starting now._ '

"You shouldn't do that while driving," Logan says with a disapproving frown as the light turns green.

"Which is why I waited until we were stopped," Jensen replies, fighting a grin.

"It's still a distraction."

"Yeah, well," Jensen says, dropping his phone back into his lap as he makes his way through the intersection, "I won't tell your mom if you won't."

"I won't tell," Brodie says from the backseat.

During dinner, Jared texts him the results of the game. Says, "So we might be playing the Niners next week," after chewing his bite of ravioli.

"Are we supposed to know who the Niners are?" Josh replies just as Allie asks, "Are they good? Are you worried?"

Ignoring his brother, Jensen nods. "They're good, yeah. Won their division with an 11-5 record. Beat Minnesota."

"That's the team that seriously kicked your ass last weekend, right?"

"Joshua."

"Dad," Brodie agrees, his tone matching his mother's.

Josh blinks, looking from his wife to his son as Jensen bites back a grin. "Yeah, that's them," he says before wiping a napkin over his mouth. "We could end up playing the Bucs if they win tomorrow, but either way, it's gonna be tough."

"Aren't they all supposed to be tough?" Josh says. "I mean, it is the playoffs."

"But the Cowboys are really good," Brodie says before Jensen can comment. "It doesn't matter who they play, they're gonna win."

Jensen throws him a grin. "Pretty sure of that, huh?"

" _Totally_ sure."

"Well, it's nice someone believes in us," Jensen says with a soft laugh. "Thanks, Brodie."

"Anytime, my friend," Brodie replies loftily as he happily shovels in another forkful of his dinner.

:::

Jensen sleeps late on Sunday, his bed a glorious extravagance as the clock on the nightstand displays the passing hour. It's noon before he finally wanders downstairs for breakfast. He keeps it fairly light, just enough to sustain him through a quick run, comes back with his muscles and lungs burning.

After downing a few glasses of water, grabbing a shower and making a quick trip to the liquor store, he shows up on Jared's front step.

"Hey, come in," Jared says, grabbing the six pack from Jensen's hand. "Fourth quarter just started."

They watch the Giants win by a touchdown and Jensen immediately gets lost in his own head, working out the immediate implications for the Cowboys' next game as the Fox analysts start in on their own speculations.

Their opponent is decided now: The San Francisco 49ers. Fourth seed in the NFC with a solid pass rush defense and sizeable front line. The Niners are nothing the Cowboys can't handle on a good day, but given their last few games, Jensen's not sure how likely they are to _have_ a good day. Especially with Jared still recovering.

A light punch to the side of his leg pulls him out of his thoughts and he glances over to see Jared giving him a knowing smirk. "Stop it. Plenty of time to start thinkin' tomorrow," he says before pushing up to his feet. "Go ahead and switch over to the next one; I'll get you another beer."

They make it halfway through the first quarter before Jensen's straddling Jared's lap, his shirt gone and pants unbuttoned. Jared's kisses are bruising and they're both panting, Jensen rocking his hips forward in need of friction. Jared's shirt is undone, fabric spread wide and Jensen ducks down to taste the exposed skin, still careful of Jared's arm the entire time, making sure to not to press too hard. Jared's right hand is a heavy weight at the back of Jensen's neck as Jensen takes his fill, mapping out skin with teeth and tongue, licking upward to find Jared's mouth in another fierce kiss.

Eventually, they give up on the game, neither of them so much as even noticing the score before they head up to Jared's bedroom. Jensen rids himself of his jeans before helping Jared the rest of the way out of his shirt and pants.

"Something tells me this isn't what Krip had in mind when he told us to spend the weekend relaxing," Jared says, grinning wide as Jensen crawls on top of him.

"Probably not," Jensen agrees. He leans down to brush a kiss over Jared's lips, light and teasing as he whispers, "But it's definitely what I had in mind."

Jared growls then and bends his knees, trying to make Jensen topple closer. Laughing, Jensen catches himself and then reaches for the nightstand, grabbing the lube and condoms from the top drawer before settling back.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Fine," Jared assures him, voice noticeably rougher as Jensen slides back to rest across Jared's thighs and arches an eyebrow. "Seriously, it's _fine_ ," Jared says, voice almost a growl now. "Just-- God, c'mon, Jensen. Do it."

It's not entirely convincing, but Jensen rests back all the same, focuses on sliding the condom onto Jared's dick and slicking him up before scooting forward, a knee on either side of Jared's ribs as he reaches back and then eases down.

"Oh. Jesus."

"Yeah," Jensen agrees, the initial burn slowly giving way to pleasure as he shifts and sits back further, one hand on Jared's stomach for support, until he's full. So fucking full. "God, _yeah_."

"Jensen."

It's a quiet sort of plea, hushed and ragged and it's all Jensen needs. He eases up slowly, feeling the slick drag of Jared's dick inside him before settling back again, starting up a stilted rhythm for Jared to fall into. Within moments they're working together, Jared's hips arching up as Jensen slides back, every push punching the breath from Jensen's lungs, making him grunt and whimper.

Jared watches him the whole time, cheeks flushed with exertion.

"Jensen. Jensen. Want you to come. Wanna feel it. Wanna-- wanna see you."

Biting back another groan, Jensen can only nod and he pushes himself up a little, reaches back with one arm to balance himself against Jared's thigh and wraps his other hand around his dick, putting on a show as Jared fucks into him.

He tries to keep his eyes on Jared, but after a few more thrusts, he can't anymore, his head dropping back as he nears the precipice, body clenching tight, pleasure coiling in the base of his spine. Jared's thrusts become stilted, little more than tight jolts and then Jensen's there, shattering and coming in thick streams across Jared's belly as he crumples forward.

"Jesus," Jared groans as Jensen shudders through the aftershocks, one hand still working his dick. Jared rolls his hips upward again. "Oh my God. Jensen."

Weakly, Jensen lifts his head up to meet Jared's eyes and manages a faint smile. Jared reaches for him and then immediately winces, his injured arm falling back down to his side and Jensen rises up slightly, still sucking in deep gulps of air.

"Tell me what you want, Jay."

" _Kiss me_ ," Jared replies, little more than an exhale.

It's not the response Jensen's expecting, but he doesn't question it. Just lifts up further, letting Jared's dick slip free as he crawls up and takes Jared's mouth, messy and completely uncoordinated, nothing but teeth and breath and a driving need to get as much as he can. And Jared gives it, opening wide for Jensen's tongue and moaning with every deep, hungry taste.

With a grunt, Jensen breaks the kiss long enough to settle himself against Jared's uninjured side and reaches down, carefully slipping off the condom and then wrapping his hand around Jared's dick.

"Oh God," Jared groans, body seizing and Jensen covers his mouth in another kiss while jerking him off. He makes Jared come just like that, reduces him to nothing but whimpering moans as his body shudders and releases, slicking Jensen's hand.

They lay there for a long while after, sweaty and sticky. Jensen can feel Jared's heartbeat against his own and he smiles, presses a kiss to the curve of Jared's shoulder.

"I take it back," Jared says after a stretch of comfortable silence. Frowning a little in confusion, Jensen glances over. Jared still has his eyes closed and there's a bead of sweat making its way down his temple, a small, blissed-out grin curving his lips. He licks his lips and pulls in another breath before clarifying. "What I said the other day. You're the best coach I've had in my whole life ever. _Ever_."

Jensen blinks and lets out a quick laugh. "Yeah, well. We'll see if you're still thinkin' that after drills tomorrow."

Jared laughs, a low sound that curves around Jensen's spine and settles in to stay.


	13. Chapter 13

Jensen arrives early Monday morning with the rest of the coaching staff to review clips Kripke's pulled from the Niners-Lions game. Those in conjunction with the work they've already put in help to devise a tentative game plan and practice schedule for the rest of the week.

"What's the outlook at QB?" Kripke asks, pen stuck between his teeth.

Riffling through his notes, Jensen answers, "Not quite a clear bill according to Misha, but Jared's improving steadily. PT's going well, movement back up to eighty percent and he's down on both anti-inflammatory and painkillers."

"Great," Kripke says, tapping his pain idly. "So we'll start him. No question."

"No question. But I think we should keep him out of pads until at least Wednesday."

Kripke seems to consider that for a moment and then glances at Jeff. "Morgan?"

"I say the longer we keep unnecessary strain off that shoulder, the better," Jeff says, sharing a brief look with Jensen. "And maybe keep up the pace with Porter; he did well last week on seven-on-sevens and if Jared takes another hard hit, we may need him."

Jensen only nods his agreement and Kripke scribbles a few more notes onto his pad.

Hours later, the players file in for the team meeting, visibly refreshed from their two-day break. There's a sharper kind of focus and intensity this time, a nearly palpable determination in the air as the men take to the field for drills. It's as necessary as it is invigorating and Jensen pushes his players harder, both on the field and in their position meetings, the sense of urgency much more palpable than it has been all year.

On Wednesday, there's a small disruption.

As Kripke wraps up his morning review, Aldis raises his hand high and says, "Excuse me, sir. I have something vitally important I'd like to share with the team."

It's the kind of thing only someone of Aldis's status can get away with and Kripke only raises an eyebrow in amused curiosity before spreading one arm wide. "By all means, Mr. Hodge. But it better be good."

"Oh, I assure you, it is _priceless_ ," Aldis says, grabbing something from under his notepad as he makes his way to the front of the room.

Jensen catches a flash of what it is, just a glimpse of glossy cover and feels his face heat instantly. The door is ten yards to his left and Jensen considers making a run for it, but Aldis is already heading straight for him, wrapping an arm around Jensen's neck and dragging him to the front of the room.

"We got a celebrity in the house, y'all. NFL's Sexiest Coach up in here!" he says, brandishing the front of the magazine in his hand for everyone to see.

Jensen's sure his face is bright red as half the players jump to their feet, squinting to see the newest edition of _Details_. Jensen doesn't need to look, his own copy already read and subsequently shoved to the bottom drawer of his desk. Sophia had done as promised, painting an accurate enough picture to be almost uncomfortable. She'd kept to the facts, to what he'd told her while embellishing a little with her own personal takes. She'd made him look more confident than he really feels most of the time, more put together and secure and not like too much of a jackass. It's about the best Jensen could've hoped for.

"Check out this face!" Aldis continues, flipping through it with one hand before holding it up high again to the full page spread at the start of the article. It's a picture of Jensen laid out in the grass, eyes closed against the sun and smiling. "We got a bonafide model in our midst, people! Look at this shit!"

That spawns a new wave of laughter and Jensen kind of wants the floor to open up and swallow him, but does his best to play along, giving Aldis's side a hard shove.

"Man, just because this is _your_ jerk-off fantasy..." he says, grabbing for the magazine as a few hollers and whoops of laugher ring out.

Aldis manages to twist away, using his back as a shield when Jensen makes a couple more grabs.

"Read it!" someone yells out from the back of the room and Jensen turns, squinting to try and spot the source.

"Whoever just said that is giving me a hundred push-ups!" He's smiling just a little as he says it, but the culprit seems to know it's no empty threat and never steps forward.

Behind him, Aldis starts reading, "'One of the most compelling and controversial men in professional sports today, Jensen Ackles is as enigmatic as he is good-looking. An intriguing puzzle of contradictions wrapped up in an almost unparalleled aesthetically-pleasing package.'" Aldis is careful to enunciate every single word, drawing it out with a flourish until Jensen lunges forward, snatching the magazine from his grasp.

Aldis's shit-eating grin proves he didn't put up much of a fight and Jensen ignores the disappointed groans and shouts from the players as he rolls the magazine up tight.

"Sorry, guys. You wanna read more, you'll go and shell out five bucks. No freebies here." Glancing over at Kripke, he's given the nod to wrap things up and swats at Aldis's arm, pushing him back to his seat. "Alright, guys, playtime's over. Let's get to work."

The room once again devolves into a rumble as the players begin packing up and Jensen wanders over to his place by the wall. Jeff's still leaning there with a smirk and Jensen rolls his eyes, points the rolled up end of the magazine right at him.

"Not a fuckin' word."

:::

Aldis's little display proves to be only the beginning of the torture Jensen's forced to endure following the article's release. On Thursday morning, Jensen finds his office wallpapered, the pages ripped out and stuck to the walls with pushpins and 'NFL'S SEXIEST COACH' scribbled in red across his whiteboard. He brings it up in the morning team meeting with the promise of retribution, which he then makes good on in the form of mandatory wind sprints later that afternoon.

Of course, the humiliation isn't limited to his players, his brother joining in on the fun later that evening. Once again, Jensen laughs it off like it's nothing, ignoring the prickling worry under his skin when Josh doesn't mention Brodie's or Logan's reactions. It's not like Josh to spare Jensen's feelings, especially where it concerns his boys, but Jensen still can't help worrying. He'd convinced himself doing the article would make it easier on them, that having something physical to point to when their friends started asking questions could relieve some of the pressure.

But now he's directing a spotlight onto himself, a bright shining light with the Ackles name front and center. He's put it out there, drawn attention to it and Logan may yet again have to shoulder some of the residual consequences. There's no doubt at least some of Logan's classmates will hear about the article and a few will probably even read it. Jensen has no idea what they might take from it, good or bad, doesn't know if he's made things better for Logan or infinitely worse.

But he doesn't have much time or energy to freak out. His days are filled with meetings and practices and film review, the intensity of the playoff season pushing everything else to the background, the panic only cropping up in his rare spare moments of peace before quickly shoved aside again.

It's ridiculous to be having regrets, Jensen knows that. What's done is done.

Or at least that's what he keeps trying to tell himself.

:::

With the playoffs comes a surge in media coverage. The Cowboys are a fairly media-savvy organization, to the point where Jensen hardly even notices the presence of reporters around Valley Ranch anymore. But as the date of their Divisional game approaches, the amount of cameras and reporters grows exponentially. It's exciting for some of the players and annoying for others, while the team's biggest stars are essentially required to grin and bear it whether they want to or not.

Jensen largely does his best to ignore them completely.

From what he can tell, the questions are still all the same. ' _What is your personal strategy going into this game?_ ' and ' _What are you personally contributing to the team at this particular time?_ ' and ' _Are there certain players on the opposing team you're excited to confront?_ ' Trash talk is encouraged and exploited, reporters all too eager to point out that so-and-so said this-or-that and what is your reaction to these speculations? The veterans can all spot it and know how to handle it while the younger guys, the rookies and second years, invariably pounce on the bait, eager to make claims they may or may not be able to physically back up.

For the most part, Kripke's happy to let the players say what they want, though some subjects are strictly off-limits.

"Remember to be respectful," he says, eying the room. "I know they're vultures, but they're vultures doing their job and some of them are even human. Treat them like your neighbor -- preferably one you like -- even if it kills you. And remember," he says, emphasizing the word with a rise in volume, "you are representing the Dallas Cowboys _at all times_. If I find out you're not putting on your best face, I _will_ make you pay. Monetarily or physically. Do I make myself clear?"

The room rumbles in understanding and, seemingly satisfied, Kripke delves into laying out the plan for the next few days, paying particular attention to when the buses leave for the stadium and what's expected of them once they arrive.

Afterward, Kripke takes a deep breath and holds his arms out wide. Says, "Well, men. This is the beginning of what we've been working toward all season. This here is what it's all about. Let's go out there and show 'em what we got."

:::

They're leading 17-10 at halftime and, after Jensen takes a piss, grabs himself a refill of coffee and spends a solid five minutes trying to calm himself down, he's back in the booth, headset on and notes at the ready. Kripke's already talking, touching base with Campo and Nguyen and a few of the other defensive coaches as the players start making their way to the sidelines.

"How's Jared holding up?" Jensen asks once there's a brief lull and Jeff pops onto the line.

"He's hurting. Being quiet about it, but you know him. Misha gave him a shot of Toradol."

Frowning, Jensen nods and starts mentally adjusting a few of the plays, going for the ones that will put Jared's shoulder in the least amount of danger and don't call for him to spend too much time in the backfield.

Within the first seven minutes of the half, the Cowboys and the 49ers have three points each, but Jensen is more relieved by the fact that Jared hasn't spent any time on the ground yet. The 49ers take possession and make their way down the field, the defense doing all it can to stop them. A few minutes later, with the Niners on the Cowboys' 44, Brown deflects a pass presumably intended for the Niners' fullback. From up in the booth, it looks like an incomplete pass, but Freemont rushes in from a few feet away, scoops up the ball and runs for thirty-one yards before being brought down by the Niners' running back. The official on the field is calling it a dead play, a simple incomplete pass and third down for the Niners', but Freemont is arguing it, walking backwards with the official as he passionately pleads his case.

"Okay, what the fuck just happened?" Kripke mutters from the sidelines and Charles fiddles with the booth's telecast, checking the replays on the national broadcast before answering.

"It was a lateral, not forward. Ball was still live."

"You're positive?" Kripke asks, already reaching for the red challenge flag in his pocket.

"As I'll ever be," Charles says and Kripke steps out onto the field, tossing the flag and sending the play into review.

Everyone in the booth gets a few minutes to relax while they await the decision and Jensen spends the time formulating a few play calls for the next drive before the head official makes his way onto the field again.

"Upon review, the ball was intended for a receiver located laterally behind he line of scrimmage and was not a forward pass. Therefore the pass is not incomplete, but a fumble. Cowboys first down."

" _Damn_ right!" Charles says, giving a fist pump.

"Good work, Whitfield," Kripke replies through the headset. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. Ackles, what are you thinking?"

Jensen rattles off a couple options as the offense takes the field and Kripke quickly picks the one he likes best as Jared crouches into the huddle. It's a decent drive from there, Jared managing to get the Cowboys into Niners territory before their opponent holds strong, and a field goal puts them up another three points heading into the fourth quarter.

Unfortunately, five minutes later, the 49ers march right back down the field, their drive ending in a thirty-three yard breakaway run for a touchdown, bringing the score up to 23-20.

"We've still got twelve minutes to move here," Kripke barks down the line. "Ackles, talk to me."

Sucking in a quick breath, Jensen settles on a few options, spouting them hurriedly during the kick return. "Let's try October Horsemen 66 Werewolf Black Sneak," he says, mouthpiece held close to his lips and waits for Kripke to give the go-ahead before flipping the comm link to repeat it to Jared.

"Take it slow and stay calm," he says as Jared breaks from the huddle. "Eat up some time here."

And that's just exactly what Jared does. Keeping the passes short and inside, he stretches out the play clock in between snaps. Jared still looks like he's hurting, his movements stiff in the backfield and face twisted into a slight grimace whenever Jensen catches a glance of him on the Jumbotron. But his passes don't appear to be suffering.

The whole drive takes six and a half minutes off the clock and culminates in a pass to Satuyi in the end zone. It's only Jared's second TD of the day, but it's an important one, knocking the score up to 30-20 and giving the Cowboys some breathing room with only four minutes left in the game.

The Niners offense lines up on their own 23-yard line to start their next drive and, on the very first play, Harmon springs up right in front of the Niners' wide receiver to intercept the ball. He runs another thirty-six yards into the end zone and the crowd goes absolutely crazy.

"Holy shit," Jensen breathes, scanning the field for any sign of a yellow penalty flag. The line judge still has his hands in the air confirming the touchdown and the score after the extra point kick is officially 37-20. After the Niners fail to produce on their next drive, Jared and the offense once again take the field, their only mission to take time off the clock and not do anything stupid. They succeed, getting the ball down to the Niner's 40-yard line before kneeling out the last fifty seconds.

Jensen doesn't move for a long moment, eyes trained on the field below as players, trainers and coaches from both teams swarm to the middle, reporters and cameramen fast on their heels. The stadium is booming, thumping music mixing with the cheers of the crowd and Jensen feels laughter bubble up in his chest as Charles gives him a hard smack on the shoulder.

"Good game, man," he says, his smile blinding and Jensen finally lets it go, just releases his relief and his joy with a loud whoop of excited laughter.

:::

After the locker room celebration and the requisite post-game interviews, Jensen's adrenaline is still in high gear. Some of his excitement drains away when he meets up with Jared in the training room, sees him smiling weakly with a pack of ice over his injured shoulder.

"How bad?" he asks, directing the question at Jared, though it's Misha who answers.

"Still no tear or fracture. No additional injury, just further aggravation. Padalecki is a pussy."

Jared huffs and gives Jensen a bare nod. "It's fine. Hurts like a sonofabitch, but it's fine."

"Okay," Jensen says, unable to keep the sliver of doubt out of his tone. "Well, you played a damn good game."

Jared's smile is easier then, a little more genuine. "Yeah, thanks. Gotta buy Eli a car or somethin', that kid was insane today."

"He got 104 yards," Jensen tells him. "That's double what he got all year."

"Seriously?" Jared says with a quiet laugh. "Well, shit. At least he's got good timing."

They talk for awhile longer, going through a few other stats Jensen had managed to snag before Misha decides he's had enough and kicks them out. "Ice every four hours," he tells Jared while ushering him out the door. "And call me tomorrow. If I don't answer, it means I'm in the shower masturbating, just try again in about ten minutes."

"Wow, that's a mental image I could've gone my entire life without, thanks."

"My pleasure," Misha says, giving them a final wave.

The locker room is a good deal less crowded when they get back, only a few stragglers left as the equipment managers pick through the mess left behind, separating cleats from dirty clothes and throwing out the balled up pieces of athletic tape littering the floor. Jared settles in front of his locker and pulls out his bag, wincing a little from the strain.

"You okay here?" Jensen asks, all too aware of the few people still around.

Jared seems to sense it and only glances up at him briefly before digging through his bag. "Yeah, I'm good. Just gonna get my ass home, swallow a bottle of Vicodin and pass out until Monday."

Jensen nods, stamping down on the impulse to offer help. Even if Jared is legitimately injured, his coach helping him get dressed would look more than a little suspect. "I hear you get even better results if you wash the drugs down with a little wine," he says as he heads toward the door.

"I'll keep that in mind," Jared says with a quick laugh. Then, "See you Monday, Coach."

:::

During the playoffs, Victory Monday is replaced by the 24 Hour Rule in which an unofficial twenty-four hours is given to all players and coaches to either celebrate a win or mourn a loss. In this case, with the game finishing Saturday night, the Cowboys are given all of Sunday to roll around in the rush of victory.

Jensen spends his day planted in front of the television, watching and taking notes on the two remaining divisional games. Or at least that's his plan. Halfway through the AFC game, he gets a call from Jared that pretty much blows it all to hell.

"So New York," Jared says, referring to the NFC game, in which the heavily favored Minnesota Vikings had lost to the Giants. He sounds tired, his words a little slurred and Jensen briefly wonders how much Vicodin he's taken already. "Kinda surprising. Got any big plans yet, Coach?"

"Thought maybe we'd spice it up a little. Play some wildcat. What do you say to doing some heavy blocking?"

Jared responds with a quiet snort. "I called Misha 'bout an hour ago," he says. "He didn't answer. My mind has been torturing me ever since." Jensen lets out a bark of a laugh and can hear Jared's answering smile through the phone line even as he says, "It's not funny, man. I have a very vivid imagination."

"And, what? You thought you'd inflict it on me?"

"Something like that, yeah," Jared admits. "Plus, I'm bored. And kind of miserable and pathetic. And you said before it's in your job description to babysit me."

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna bring that up in my next contract negotation."

"But until then you're totally my bitch."

"And still your boss so watch it," Jensen says, smirk clear in his tone.

"Can you stop by Whataburger on your way? I'm starving."

Jensen rolls his eyes, but he's already turning off the television and setting aside his notepad. "Anything else, Your Highness?"

"Yes. Lube," Jared replies. "Lots of it."

He arrives at Jared's place an hour later and they eat in the living room, television tuned to the last few minutes of the Broncos-Steelers game.

"Man, it'd be nice to see Denver lose for a change," Jared grumbles as he licks salt from his fingers.

Jensen only grunts in response. He doesn't share Jared's personal distaste for the Broncos, but he can't argue that the Cowboys have a much better chance against just about any other opponent. Assuming they get that far.

After the post-game show ends, Jared flips the channel to ESPN while Jensen gathers up the mess of used napkins and empty wrappers. The guys on SportsCenter are already speculating about next week and Jensen isn't sure how much he really wants to hear; their opinions are invariably irritating. But Jared is clearly interested, TV remote resting idly on his thigh as he listens.

Jensen spots the _Details_ magazine as he's grabbing the last balled-up napkin off the table, his motions halting at the sight of the familiar glossy cover peeking out from beneath a stack of clutter.

Catching him, Jared says, "You better not be judging me," with a smirk.

Roughly clearing his throat, Jensen gets to his feet, trash in hand. He shoots Jared a quick, strained grin and says, "Were you hopin' to find some deep, dark secrets in there?" as he makes his way towards the kitchen.

"Was hopin' for a centerfold, actually," Jared says. "Seriously disappointed."

Jensen doesn't reply as he throws out the trash and then opens himself another beer.

"It's a pretty good piece," Jared continues as Jensen steps back into the living room. "Think my favorite part was when she said you're _almost_ as good-looking as the team's starting quarterback."

Jensen gives a faint snort then despite himself, gaze trained on the television as he takes a seat on the couch.

"Don't be hurt; it's still a hell of a compliment."

He's honestly not really surprised Jared has the magazine. And he's not upset. Not really. But after spending the last few days resolutely refusing to think about it, he feels suddenly blind-sided, reminded all over again that it's out there, practically his entire life story wide open for scrutiny, his metaphorical ass bare to to the world. There's more in there than he's ever told his parents, more than he's ever told _anyone_ aside from maybe Danneel. Stuff about his first sexual experiences, though he'd kept that all largely vague, stuff about LeAnn and even Chris, though not in name or specifics. And, even with all that, he's not worried so much about what the guys on the team think; after the initial round of good-natured teasing, there's been absolutely no talk of it.

But he is worried about other people. Past friends and lovers, people at Washington State and OSU, coaches and teammates and players. Because as much as Jensen tries to pretend he doesn't care what other people think, he knows it's bullshit. He's always cared. If he didn't, he wouldn't have stayed buried in the closet until the age of thirty-five.

"Hey."

Jared's voice is quiet beneath the din of the television and Jensen blinks, reluctantly pulled back to the present.

"You okay?"

Swallowing, Jensen glances over to see the concerned furrow of Jared's brow and gives a quick nod. "Yeah," he says, fighting a wince as his voice breaks and tipping his head for another sip.

Jared doesn't say anything further for awhile and Jensen keeps his focus trained on the television. When Jared finally speaks, he's still quiet and his hand is only an inch away from Jensen's leg.

"You're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," Jensen replies and Jared huffs a laugh, dimples flashing as he pokes at Jensen's leg with a single finger.

"Hey, it's cool. You're allowed."

"It's--" Jensen starts and then stops, releasing a frustrated breath. There's too much about the whole thing Jared could never understand and Jensen doesn't feel like trying to explain it all. He simply doesn't have the energy.

"It's a big deal," Jared says, like he's finishing Jensen's aborted sentence. His hand rests on Jensen's thigh, which Jensen is surprised to find comforting. "Seriously. You're allowed to freak out about this. I mean, come on. It's the first real interview you've given in _years_ , the first you've really talked about everything since you came out. It's huge. I'm kind of surprised you haven't had a total meltdown already."

Jensen can tell Jared's at least partially joking with that last piece and he can't help a small smile even as he grumbles a low, "Fuck you."

"Well, okay, but I didn't think you were in the mood," Jared replies, lips twisted in a coy grin.

Jensen rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn't falter and he finds some of the tension slowly drain away. The worry isn't entirely gone and is certainly far from forgotten, but with Jared beside him, it feels easier to breathe at least.

He glances down at Jared's hand, gaze tracing over the bumps of his knuckles, the slender curve of each long finger. He shifts a little, his knee nestling further into the press of Jared's broad palm before reaching out to trace his thumb along the smooth skin of Jared's hand, outlining a vein down to the wrist and back. Jared's still the entire time, his breath quiet and even as Jensen focuses on the texture of Jared's skin.

After a few moments, Jared turns his wrist and catches Jensen's fingers, stilling his ministrations with a gentle squeeze.

"It's gonna be okay," he says, voice barely a whisper. "I know you don't think I get it, but I've had my fair share of interviews, you know? I'm not totally clueless here."

It's not quite the same thing and they both know it, but something in Jared's voice, something in his very _presence_ , makes Jensen relax. He feels grounded for the first time in awhile, held steady by the curl of Jared's hand and the gentle nudge of his shoulder.

And he finds himself wondering how things might have been different had Jared been around when he'd first come out, if he would've received this same level of support. Probably not given the circumstances, and Jensen doubts he would've let himself take refuge in it anyway.

But that was then.

Pulling in a slow breath, Jensen gives Jared's hand an answering squeeze, runs his thumb along the smooth skin and thinks maybe Jared's right about this. Maybe it really will be okay.

:::

Once again, they keep Jared out of pads until Wednesday and up Porter's snaps while Jared concentrates largely on getting healthy enough for the game. The last time they'd played the Giants, Jared took one hell of a beating and while the O-line is spending their week trying to ensure that doesn't happen again, it's still a concern. With the way Jared is now, one more solid hit could knock him out completely and the only thing worse than not making the Super Bowl is making it with a seriously injured starting quarterback.

Position meetings are spent reviewing old film from the past two Giants games, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses on both sides of the ball and altering accordingly. The week flies by, every last second spent modifying plays and technique, scrutinizing film and working out the game plan. Before they know it, it's Friday and Kripke's giving them the run-down on the weekend's schedule. After making sure everyone's clear on the details, Kripke sets the players loose and Jensen slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.

"Ackles, hang back. Need to speak with you for a few," Kripke says before Jensen can take more than a couple steps.

There's something in his tone that immediately has Jensen's stomach twisting, but he manages a nod and an easy smile. "Sure. What's up?"

"In my office," Kripke clarifies, eying him carefully.

Kripke's office isn't empty when they arrive. Seated on the couch along the far wall is Rich Dalrymple, the team's director of public relations, and the team's billionaire manager, Jerry Jones. Neither of them looks pleased to be there, though they immediately stand to shake Jensen's hand in greeting.

"How you doin', Jensen? Good to see you," Mr. Jones says, his handshake solid as ever.

"I'm good, sir," he replies and then tries his best for another smile. "Real good, thank you. And yourself?"

Mr. Jones smiles then, though Jensen can't help noticing it looks a little strained. "Long as we're winnin', I'm glorious. But I'm afraid we do have an issue to discuss. Please, take a seat."

Jensen does, glancing over briefly to see Kripke standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest as Mr. Jones and Mr. Dalyrmple take their seats on the couch, both of them scooted to the edge, elbows on their knees.

"There seems to be a situation," Mr. Jones continues, speaking as though he's choosing his words carefully. "A rumor has recently come to our attention and, seeing as it's the playoff season, that in itself is not particularly worrisome. These things happen, I know you understand."

Jensen nods as that sickening pull in his stomach only intensifies.

"The problem comes in whether or not there is any truth to this rumor."

"And how we choose to address it," Mr. Dalrymple adds. "Whether true or not."

"Okay," Jensen says and then forces himself to take a slow breath. "So what's this rumor? What does it have to do with me?"

Mr. Jones falters a little then, smooths a thumb over the palm of his hand before meeting Jensen's gaze again. "Are you or have you ever been sexually intimate with a member of this team, Jensen?"

It's both exactly what Jensen had been fearing and also the last thing he'd expected to hear and his response is immediate, a knee-jerk reaction to deny, deny, deny. "No, of course not," he says, lips tugging into a frown. "What is this? Where is this coming from?"

"We're still working that out," Mr. Jones replies, all business. "All we've heard so far is talk of you and Jared Padalecki engaging in a sexual relationship. Now, you're both adults and you're-- We are aware of your sexual preference, Jensen. There are no legal issues here to worry about, but it is a rather unsavory scandal and I'm sure you can understand why we need to know the truth."

Jensen feels frozen, locked with fear though he does his best not to let it show. Roughly clearing his throat, he asks, "Have you talked to Jared?"

"We will soon," Mr. Jones says. "And I'm sure we'll get the same answer from him."

It almost sounds like a challenge and Jensen tries not to focus too much on the idea that Jared may not give the same answer, that he might fuck everything up right before the NFC Championship game.

"Is this really something we need to worry about?" Jensen says, trying his best for professional and not panicked. "It's just a rumor. Why do we need to even acknowledge it?"

"We might not necessarily," Mr. Dalrymple says. He's quieter than Mr. Jones, his accent a bland Midwestern and he's nowhere near as intimidating. "It depends on how quickly it spreads and how big it gets. But we need to form some kind of plan here, keeping in mind, of course, that it's subject to change."

"Right now, we need to focus. The whole team needs to focus."

"We understand that," Mr. Jones drawls. "And I agree with you. That's why we're bringing it up now. We need to head it off at the pass, make it go away early so it doesn't become a distraction."

"We play in two days."

"Yes, but God willing, we are two weeks away from the Super Bowl," Mr. Jones says, his tone a little colder. "We need to knock this out now before it festers and spreads and becomes a much larger, much more dangerous issue."

Jensen feels his lips press into a thin line as he considers it. He knows they're right, knows the whole thing has every potential to blow up at precisely the worst possible moment. Hell, it's already doing just that; the best they can do is try to put a stop to it. It means lying outright, but Jensen's still damn good at that. Like riding a bicycle.

"Alright," he says, pulling in a deep breath and rubbing his palm over his knee. "What do you want me to do?"

Both Jerry Jones and Rich Dalyrmple visibly relax then, the latter giving Jensen a warm smile as he says, "Just give me permission to issue a statement on your behalf. We'll take care of it."

"Fine," Jensen says, giving his own strained smile as he tries not to wonder whether it's better or worse to have people lie for him instead of doing the deed himself. "You need it in writing?"


	14. Chapter 14

By the time Jensen gets home, he has twenty missed calls and fifteen voicemails. Two are from his brother, one from his parents, a couple from Jared and the vast majority from Danneel whose attitude had gradually shifted from, "Baby, I just heard the news, what's going on?" to, "Ackles, you motherfucking cocksucker, I'm gonna crush your nuts the next time I see you if you don't fucking _call me_."

In the interest of his balls, he decides it's best to call her first. Even if it's just about the very last thing he wants to do.

"Please, please, _please_ tell me this is just a rumor, Jensen. Please."

Sighing, Jensen pulls a beer out of his fridge and uses his keychain to pop it open. "It's just a rumor," he says, tipping his head back for a long pull.

"Why don't I believe you?"

He swallows his drink and then wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Says, "Probably because you're a cynical bitch."

"No, it's because you're a shitty liar."

"You take that back. I am an _excellent_ liar."

"Jensen," Danneel says, tone dripping with exasperation. "Seriously. Talk to me. Should I be worried here?"

Leaning back against the counter, Jensen holds his beer bottle close to his chest and lets out another breath. He stopped lying to Danneel five years ago and he doesn't much like the idea of starting up again.

"You guessed this back in Cleveland," he points out, his tone somewhere between annoyed and mildly amused. "Actually, you didn't guess so much as flat-out accuse me."

"So I was right."

"No. At the time, you were dead wrong."

Danneel's quiet for a second. Then, "Please don't claim I put the idea in your head. That's bullshit, Jensen. I am _not_ taking the blame for you being incapable of keeping your dick in your pants."

"Jesus, calm down," Jensen snaps. He lifts a thumb to his brow, the beer bottle cool against his cheek.

"What about Matt?"

Jensen drops his hand. "We broke up."

"What? When?"

"'Bout a month ago."

"Because you decided you'd rather be fucking your quarterback?"

"Because I found out he'd been trying to manipulate me."

"Oh," Danneel replies, a little quieter. She falls silent then and Jensen takes a couple more sips of his beer. Wonders how long it'll take for his stomach to calm down enough for him to consider actually eating dinner. "This is bad, Jensen."

"Yeah."

"Have you talked to Jared?"

"No."

"We'll you're going to, right? I mean, you can't keep it up, you know that. Even if you lie and the story goes away, there's still gonna be speculation. If people see you two even just talking outside of practice..."

Swallowing tightly, Jensen drops his hand to his side, stomach churning as he glares down at the tiled floor. He nods. "I know."

"Look, I'll check into it, okay? See if I can figure out where it's coming from and then we can go from there."

"PR's already on it."

"Yeah, well. I have a better chance of finding a tiger in Antartica than Rich has of finding his own dick in the morning."

Jensen laughs despite himself, a quiet, surprised huff that manages to make him feel a little better for all of about ten seconds.

"Okay, baby," Danneel says, softer. "I'll call you tomorrow, alright? Make yourself some dinner and try to relax."

"I will."

"And talk to Jared."

"Yeah," Jensen says, stomach tightening all over again. "I will."

:::

He has the television tuned to a LOST re-run and he's on his third beer when Jared calls.

He ignores it the first time, tells himself he can pretend he didn't hear it ring. But when it goes off again only a few minutes later, he stares down at Jared's smiling face for a few moments, pulls in a quick breath and hits connect.

"So it wasn't Matt."

Jensen frowns as he turns down the volume on the TV. "What wasn't Matt?"

"Whoever started this. It wasn't him."

"Okay," Jensen says, drawing the word out a little. He hadn't thought to suspect Matt, but now that Jared's brought it up, it actually makes sense. "How do you know?"

"I called him."

Jared says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Jensen can't help but let out a quick laugh. "What do you mean you called him?"

"I mean I called him. Found his number, called him up and just-- Well, I bitched him out, basically."

"Jesus, Jared."

"Yeah, I know," Jared says, sounding vaguely ashamed. "It, uh. Didn't go over very well."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"We still don't know who it is."

Jensen sighs and shifts on the couch, hunching over as he rubs a hand across his face. "Does it even fucking matter, Jay? It's done. It's over. We're officially screwed."

"Jensen."

It's a plea, clear as anything, but Jensen tries to shut it out, shaking his head. "You denied it, right? Tell me you denied it."

"Of course I denied it," Jared says.

Jensen lets out a quiet breath. He's as worried about Jared's career and reputation here as he is his own, but he doesn't say as much. Maybe doesn't need to.

"So we're good, right? We're okay?"

Jared's voice is quieter then, hopeful, and Jensen knows Jared's not talking about the scandal or the implications anymore. Grimacing, he feels a sting in his eyes that he immediately brushes away with the heel of his hand.

"This is gonna pass over," Jared continues, like he's rushing to get the words in before Jensen can object. "Maybe not for awhile, but it will. Jensen, just-- C'mon, man. It'll be fine."

"You should get some rest," Jensen says, voice coming out rougher than he'd intended.

"Jensen."

"You've got a game to get ready for."

Jared doesn't respond for a long moment and Jensen can feel his own heartbeat in his ears, closes his eyes and prays Jared will just go along with it, just cut him a break for once in his life.

Finally, he hears a quiet breath. Then, "Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Coach."

Jensen's hand is shaking when he disconnects the call. He takes another drink of his beer.

:::

He sleeps in late the next day, wallowing in a small hangover before finally dragging himself out of bed to empty his bladder. His phone rings while he's making his morning coffee, still half asleep and caught between reliving the events of the day before and sliding into unconsciousness. He blinks to attention, staring at the vibrating contraption for a few disoriented moments before grabbing at it. His brother's typical unamused face stares back at him.

"Hey."

"Oh, so you _haven't_ actually thrown yourself off a cliff. I was starting to wonder."

Jensen frowns. Any other time, he'd probably laugh, but he's still hungover and not in the mood. "You want something?"

"Actually, yeah," his brother replies. "Can you either tell these media shitwipes to stop calling me or at least fill me in on what the hell I should tell them?"

Grimacing, Jensen falls back against the counter. "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't... I'll see what I can do."

Josh is quiet then, but only for a second, his voice a little softer when he speaks again. "So you wanna tell me what's going on?"

"What, you mean you managed to miss the news?"

"Jensen, come on. What's the deal?"

Jensen shakes his head and turns back to his coffee, finishing off his cup as he says, "Look, I'll talk about it later. I need to get ready for the game."

"The game isn't until tomorrow. What the hell am I supposed to tell these people?" Josh asks, irritation once again slipping into his tone.

"Hell, I don't know, Josh. Tell 'em to fuck off and die for all I care."

"Can I quote you on that?"

Jensen actually manages a small smile then, though it's fleeting. "Sure," he says, carefully pouring himself his cup of coffee.

"Have you at least called Mom and Dad?"

"Fuck," Jensen mutters, wrapping a hand around his coffee and lifting it close to his face.

"They're worried, man. And I know how much you hate talking about shit like this with them, but I think they at least deserve to know you're okay." He pauses then and Jensen takes a tentative sip of his coffee. " _Are_ you okay?"

The coffee is still a little too hot, but Jensen relishes the burn, lips pursed. "Yeah, I'm fine," he finally manages and tells himself it's the truth. "I'll call them."

"Okay," Josh replies, but Jensen can feel the doubt there clear as anything. "Just. Let me know if you need anything. Seriously. I know I give you a hard time, but you're still my little brother. I'll be first in line to kick someone's ass if needed. You just give the word."

Jensen huffs a laugh, watches the ripple effect of it across the surface of his coffee.

Later, after finishing his second cup, he calls his parents. It's an easier conversation than he'd anticipated and he just keeps to the basics, admitting nothing and assuring them over and over again that he's fine. They both wish him luck for the game and he hangs up feeling slightly better.

He leaves for the hotel in the late afternoon. As expected, there's a media horde surrounding the player and personnel entrance, but instead of texting Jeff to see if there's an alternate way in, he simply braves it, giving them all a strained and dismissive smile as he pushes his way through the flashing lights and invasive questions.

His hotel room offers some reprieve. It's quiet and isolated and no one stops by to bother him. He lays his notes out over the bed and uses his e-pad to arrange and rearrange, design and redesign, finally getting his mind back into the upcoming game for the first time in over twenty-four hours. He calls in room service for dinner and finishes it all over a spread of offensive schemes arranged from highest potential to lowest dependent on point differential and projected defensive output and finally decides to call it a night when it feels like his contacts are glueing themselves to his eyeballs.

It's nearly midnight when he crawls into bed. His hotel phone hasn't rung once all evening, meaning no good luck voicemail from Jared.

By the time he actually manages to fall asleep, he's still working on convincing himself it's not disappointment he feels, but relief.

:::

There's a text on his phone from Danneel the next morning. Just two words. A name.

' _Grady Hamilton_ '

He doesn't have to question what it is or what it means, just tosses the phone on the bed before wandering into the bathroom for a shower.

They leave for the stadium an hour later and Jensen has to remind himself that avoiding Jared inside a work setting is not only ridiculous and unprofessional, but looks doubly suspicious. They sit together on the bus and, after some internal deliberation, Jensen shows him the text.

"Shit," Jared says, lips curved in a deep frown.

Jensen shrugs. He wants to say he's surprised by the revelation, but that would be a lie. If anything, he's simply disappointed.

Hundreds of fans fill the parking lot when they get to the stadium, a good few dozen of them waving and hollering as the bus drives past. The players head into the locker room and Jensen kills some time running laps around the field in an attempt to clear his head. The TV and 3D crews are setting up their cameras while audio technicians and stadium employees run wires and arrange mics and build barriers all around.

None of them bother Jensen during his run, which Jensen finds surprising, though he's sure as hell not about to complain.

He takes a shower afterward and changes while the players get ready to head out to their own warm-ups. The energy in the locker room is strung tight with anticipation and nerves, the guys changing in near silence. Most of them are listening to their iPods, some bent over in front of their lockers, eyes closed in meditation or prayer, some reading Bibles. Routine is never more important than before a game like today's, the mindless tasks offering opportunity for sharper focus on the larger picture. Namely, winning.

As game time approaches, the population witihin the stadium grows, voices and music from the tannoy filling the place with mounting excitement. Jensen takes his seat up in the booth with the other coaches, notepad laid out and ready in front of him as the pre-game entertainment begins.

"Hey," Charles says, dropping down into the chair next to him. "You doin' alright, man?"

Jensen glances over, sees nothing but concern on Whitfield's face. His gaze slides to Andrew a few seats over and is surprised to see that the guy doesn't look nearly as disgusted or suspicious as Jensen had expected. Just curious. And maybe a little anxious, but Jensen's willing to bet that doesn't have so much to do with him.

"Yeah," he says, turning his attention back to Charles with a small smile. "Yeah, I'm good."

And for the first time in forty-eight hours, he feels like he might actually mean it.

:::

Jared doesn't have his best day. By halftime, the Cowboys are trailing 13-14 and Jared hasn't had a single touchdown pass all game. He also hasn't had a single turnover and hasn't been sacked so Jensen's choosing to call it even.

At the start of the third quarter, the Giants march the ball down the field in just three plays and score a touchdown to lengthen their lead. Jensen starts getting nervous.

"Thirty-three Lilith Spin Yellow Pentagon Five," Jensen rattles off as Jared and the offense take to the field. It's a run play, but Jared changes it at the line and gets off a quick five-yard pass to Jake that Jake than pushes into a first down. It offers a good surge of momentum and Jared harnesses it to drive the team downfield, gaining themselves a touchdown minutes later to bring the score to 20-21.

"Good call, Jared," Jensen says while the offense celebrates while silently praying for the defense to step up and help out.

And the defense does exactly that, forcing the Giants to punt after a solid three-and-out on the next drive. The Cowboys recover on their own 25-yard line and then the offense is on the field again, Jared leading them steadily downfield. Once in Giants territory, they hit a snag of penalties, a couple holding calls that have Ford practically livid and an illegal contact against the Giants that gives the Cowbys five yards and a first down on the Giants' 36-yard line.

Two plays later and they have another touchdown.

"Yes! _Yes_!" Whitfield cheers and even Jensen is on his feet as the Cowboys take the lead for the first time all game.

"Good, let's keep it going!" Kripke shouts through the headset. "Defense, get a move on!"

The Giants score on their next possession, though the Cowboys manage to hold them to only three points and both teams hit something of a standstill midway through the fourth quarter. With five minutes left in the game, the Cowboys take the ball and work at eating up as much time as possible on their way to a touchdown. Only ahead by three points, a field goal will do them little good as a simple Giants touchdown and extra point could steal the lead.

"Take your time, take your time," Jensen mutters through the comm link, keeping his voice calm even though he knows Jared doesn't need it. "Let's try Thirty-three Lilith Spin Yellow Pentagon Five," he says, pulling up the abandoned play from earlier as Jared heads into the huddle.

They're on the Giants' 35-yard line with three and a half minutes to go. It's only second down. They have plenty of time.

Jared takes the snap and drops back, fakes a hand-off before lobbing the ball to Felix. But Felix misses it, the ball wobbling in his grip and dropping to the turf. It's a scramble then, but Todd Downey, the Giants' massive linebacker, is the first to fall on it.

And just like that it's the Giants' ball.

" _Fuck_ ," Kripke shouts, loud enough that Jensen nearly pulls the headset away from his ear. "What the fuck was that? What the _fuck_ was that? Jesus Christ! Defense, let's move it!"

The Cowboys defense swarms the field and Nguyen starts growling plays through the headset. The Giants try for a pass up the sidelines, but Rogers is there to bat it away. On their next play, they pump a fake to the left before shooting off a five-yarder to their tight end who is immediately met and pounded to the ground by Lewis, bringing them to third down.

The stadium is going crazy, all the fans on their feet and every coach in the booth right there with them. Jensen has his hands folded behind his head and his heart is beating in triple time. It's third-and-five and Demarcus Stutts drops back with the snap, looks left and then right just as Harrison Andersson breaks through the Giants' offensive line and barrels right into him, sacking him seven yards behind the line of scrimmage.

"Yes, _that_!" Kripke shouts, voice cracking. "That is what I'm talking about! Thank you, Andersson!"

On fourth-and-twelve with nearly two minutes left in the game, the Giants opt to punt, giving the Cowboys' one more possession.

"Alright, let's keep it smart here," Kripke says. "Ball control, people. No room for sloppy."

Jensen switches his comm link over to Jared, once again keeping his voice calm as his skin itches with nerves. And Jared does perfect, aiming his passes low and up the middle, draining the clock as they make slow, steady progress, gaining a first down at their own 35-yard line.

With the clock down to just forty-five seconds, Jensen lets out a breath and says, "We've got this. Kneel it. We're done."

Both end zones explode in a spray of pyrotechnics and the stadium booms with victory music, blue and silver confetti raining down from the domed ceiling. Down on the field, the players are donning white NFC Champion hats, hugging and climbing over each other in celebration while Kripke shakes hands with Jerry Jones.

Charles thumps a hand against Jensen's back, the force of it nearly knocking him over and Jensen lets out a quick, startled laugh.

"We're going to the Super Bowl, baby!" Whitfield shouts before releasing an ear-splitting whoop.

Jensen feels like he can barely breathe.

They're going to the Super Bowl.

:::

The post-game media circus lasts far longer than normal. Jensen does his best to avoid it and largely succeeds, giving only a wave to a dozen or so hollering reporters.

Jared doesn't get off quite so easy; he has a press conference to attend.

The media room is only a few yards away, but Jensen watches the feed from the locker room, arms crossed as a few players huddle around him. Most of the others are still busy getting changed, their residual whoops and cheers occasionally overpowering the audio of the television, though nobody attempts to quiet them.

Jared fields question after question, most of them in regards to his performance and his take on the game as a whole. He handles it all easily, hair damp from the shower he'd manage to grab before the interview and cheeks still slightly red from the last three hours of physical exertion. He looks tired, but pleased, his grin never fading.

And then someone asks the one question Jensen's been dreading:

"So what do you have to say about the current rumor regarding you and QB coach, Jensen Ackles?"

Jensen feels a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he keeps his eyes on the screen. He feels suddenly overwhelmingly aware of where he is and whom he's with, though the few players flanking him on either side stay right where they are. Jared still appears utterly calm.

"My take is that it doesn't require comment," Jared says, leaning in close to the microphone. "It's a ridiculous claim, pure and simple. Next question."

It's probably not the best way Jared could've handled it, but it's certainly better than Jensen had expected.

"Hey, Coach." Sucking in a breath, Jensen glances over. Kyle Miller, the team's center, stands a few feet away, naked but for his football pants, a large white towel draped over one shoulder. "We got your back, okay?" he says, a sincere tilt to his lips. "No worries."

Jensen blinks in surprise.

"Yeah, man," Mesnick chimes in. "We know it's all bullshit anyway."

"Seriously, like. I don't swing that way or nothin', but you a good-lookin' dude," Derrick says, lips twisted in a smile. "No way you're gonna put up with Padalecki. We know better."

Jensen laughs despite himself, a rough, surprised sound as he rubs a hand across his face.

"How 'bout we just concentrate on our next game, huh?" he says, though he can't help the swell in his chest. "Heard a rumor it's kind of a big one."

"Oh, hell yeah!" someone calls out from the other side of the room. "Go Cowboys!"

Jensen lets himself get swept up in the moment, the pure rush of celebration and excitement. Lets himself forget about everything else for a few perfect moments. He can figure out the rest later, but right now... right now, they have one more game to win.

:::

Their Super Bowl opponent is decided hours later when the Denver Broncos beat the Tennessee Titans 38-30 in the AFC Championship Game. It's wholly unsurprising and Jensen catches himself wondering how irritated Jared must be over the news before spending the rest of the night fielding phone calls from friends and family all wanting to pass on their congratulations.

There's an e-mail from Matt in his inbox. It's fairly short and to the point, just a quick congratulations and good luck followed by an acknowledgment about the whole Grady scandal. ' _Call if you need anything_ ,' it says at the end and Jensen considers it. Not because he particularly needs anything, but because he knows Matt's still a good guy despite everything.

Instead, he shoots back a simple reply and offer to meet up once things settle down. With his schedule what it is right now, it's really the best he can manage.

The preliminary work starts Tuesday morning with a coaches' meeting at Valley Ranch. The team has two weeks to prepare for the Super Bowl, but only one of those weeks will be spent in Dallas as both teams are required to report to Pasadena a week prior to the big game so the media can descend upon them like a pack of hungry lions. Practices will still take place, of course, either in the Rose Bowl or in some other nearby facility, but the distractions are going to increase tenfold.

Jensen stays late with Jeff and Kripke on Tuesday night to hammer out the offensive game plan and shape the practice schedule. With some input from Misha, they decide to again keep Jared out of pads for the week as well as sit out a few of their other injured starters until Pasadena. Once there, the plan is to go into full practice mode as much as possible, barring the interruption of Media Day.

The week at Valley Ranch passes in a blur. The media is allowed into practice for an hour on Thursday, a disruption that doesn't appear to have much bearing on player output, for which Jensen is grateful.

It has a serious impact on his own state of mind, however.

"Jensen. Jensen!" The guy shouting is one Jensen recognizes: Larry Eugene, local reporter for the Dallas Morning News. He's middle-aged with a beard and receding hairline and there's a bead of sweat working down the side of his face as he waves his hand to get Jensen's attention. "Jensen, can you tell us if there is any truth at all to these rumors? Either regarding Jared Padalecki or any player in your coaching career?"

Sighing, Jensen tucks his notepad under his arm. "Guys, come on. This was all started by a kid just shooting his mouth off to stir up trouble. I can't believe you're still pretending it's a story."

"He claims to have seen you and Padalecki together," another reporter chimes in, a woman this time in a polo shirt and black slacks.

"Well, I should hope so," Jensen says, ignoring the twist of panic in his stomach. "Grady was on our squad for months; he saw both of us every single day."

"So you're saying there's absolutely no truth to his claim."

Looking the guy straight in the eye, Jensen replies, "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Then why aren't you suing him for slander?"

The question catches him by surprise, but Jensen recovers quickly, forcing his frown into a smile. "I've kinda got more important things to worry about right now, Larry. I'll deal with it after we win the Super Bowl, how 'bout that?"

:::

Kripke extends the week's practice through Saturday, though it's kept fairly low-key with a shorter amount of time spent on the field. It's a break in the routine, but not too jarring. A necessary sacrifice given the unpredictability of the following week and the pure weight of the game for which they're preparing.

Jensen heads to his office afterward and flips on his computer to start reviewing the morning's practice footage. Given the abbreviated length, there won't be much, but little is better than nothing and there's no doubt he'll find something that needs improvement.

He's about ten minutes in when someone knocks at his open office door.

"Hey, Coach?"

Jensen carefully finishes his train of thought before clearing his throat and glancing over. "Jared. Hey. Can I help you?" he says, his tone deliberately formal and professional.

"Hi, can I..." Jared points his thumb at the door and Jensen hesitates for a moment before giving a nod, tensing as Jared carefully closes the door and then just stands there, two hands on the strap of his duffel bag. "I just." He makes a vague gesture with one hand and then lets out a breath, brows furrowing. "Are you doing okay?"

"I'm fine," Jensen replies, betraying nothing.

"Really? 'Cause I get the feeling you've spent the entire past week ignoring me and freaking out."

"Jared."

"Look, it's not a big deal, okay? It's gonna go away."

"Jared," Jensen says again, voice firm. "Stop. We're not having this conversation."

"Come over for the game tomorrow," Jared says, referring to the Pro Bowl, which none of the Cowboys or Broncos will be attending due to the impending Super Bowl. It's a meaningless game, but also a fun one and Jensen knows most of the guys are looking forward to watching some of their colleagues duke it out one last time. "We can talk then, okay? Relax, maybe have a few beers. I've done this ride before, Jensen, you're gonna need the breather, trust me."

It doesn't sound so much like an invitation as it does an outright plea, but Jensen doesn't have to think about it, already shaking his head before Jared even finishes.

"Jensen, come on. You can't seriously avoid me forever."

"I'm not avoiding you."

"Bullshit," Jared says, his tone rising a notch. Jensen shoots a glance at the closed door and Jared immediately huffs and pulls his shoulders in, voice quieter. "I'm not letting you do this, okay? I'm not letting you push me away just because some stupid little punk decided to run his mouth."

"Jared, how do you think he knew?"

"He _didn't_ ," Jared says. Jensen doesn't miss the difference in tense. "Doesn't. That's my whole point."

"And that's _my_ point, Jay. He didn't know. There was nothing going on between us while he was on the team, nothing for him to see aside from how we were in practice. That's it. So if he can observe and draw those conclusions when we're not even _together_ , how long do you think it's gonna take for someone else to figure it out if we're actually fucking?"

"It has nothing to do with that," Jared replies, voice calm. Too calm. Jensen can practically see the anger boiling under Jared's skin, making him shift his weight from one foot to the other like he can barely contain it. "He hated you from the moment he stepped onto this team for one reason and one reason only. And he hated me because I was the only one calling him on his bullshit."

"So, what? This is revenge?"

"Absolutely."

"For _what_?"

"Fuck, I don't know! For being cut? For suffering the humiliation of being judged not good enough by a fag? Because we made it further in the playoffs than he did? Because I took a piss in his Cheerios; how the fuck should I know?"

Jensen sighs, frustration knotting his stomach tighter. "This won't be an isolated incident."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," Jensen says, eyes locked on Jared. "It's out there now, Jared. It won't just go away like you seem to think. For as long as we're both on the same team, people will wonder and speculate and see things, even if they're not there. We're under a goddamn microscope--"

"Well, if they're gonna wonder anyway--"

" _No!_ Jesus, Jared, you just don't get it, do you? I am _done_ hiding. Okay? I'm done constantly watching my back, terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, worried that one day I'm gonna slip up and that'll be the end of it. I gave that up four years ago and I'm not going back."

Jared doesn't respond at all for a long moment, but when he does, his voice is even quieter. Cold. "So I get no choice in this."

It isn't a question.

There's a part of Jensen that wants to take it all back, that thinks maybe Jared has a point, that if people are going to speculate anyway it couldn't hurt to give them something to speculate _about_. But it's too high of a tightrope, too much of a risk of falling into the same trap it took him decades to escape. And he just can't do it.

He turns his head, focusing on the paused image on his computer screen as he says, "Get some rest tomorrow. I'll see you Monday."

Again, Jared doesn't say a word. Jensen can feel the weight of Jared's stare as he hits play on the practice clip and hours' old audio of Kripke's whistle crackles through the silence.

When Jared finally speaks, it's a simple, "Yeah, okay," his voice cracking in a way that feels like a physical punch to Jensen's stomach. "Talk to you later. _Coach_."

Jensen looks up just in time to see the hard line of Jared's shoulders as he leaves.

Kripke's voice through his computer screen sounds tinny and far away: "Good work, Padalecki! Good hustle! Let's see that one on game day, alright? Let's go!"

The team is staying at the Andaz in West Hollywood, every player and coach assigned his own individual room, a switch from the rookies-room-together rule of the regular season. The mezzanine level of the hotel holds four conference rooms, all of which the Cowboys have full use of during the week in addition to a half dozen other regular rooms to use for team and positions meetings and a couple floors set aside for friends and family members.

After two hours spent checking in and grabbing lunch, the team gathers in the largest conference room for the run-down on the upcoming week, including a detailed schedule of all meetings, practices, photo shoots and media obligations. It's a lot to take in, especially for the guys doing this for the first time, but the excitement is still present in spades. Jensen's fairly sure that will carry them through if nothing else.

Once through the general overview, Kripke starts in on the specifics of Media Day.

"I know some of you have been through this before," he says, his demeanor relaxing somewhat at the shift in conversation. "So you all can fill the others in later on what to expect, but for now I'll just say... well, expect some pretty weird shit."

That gets a few laughs and nods of agreement and Jensen glances over to see even Jared smiling. He hasn't been doing it much lately.

"If you've always wanted to be interviewed by a frog puppet or take tango lessons from a chimpanzee, this just may be your chance. Now," he continues, cutting in before any of the players can start reminiscing about past media days, "dress code is full uniform minus padding. Jersey's tucked in, socks up high, no alteration or modification whatsoever. With the exception of padding, cleats and helmets, you are to dress as though it's game day. No exceptions.

"This is a mandatory event. Meaning all players and coaches are required to attend. Yes, it's going to be a little overwhelming so stick with a few teammates if you're afraid of getting lost in the mob. Myself and six players..." He trails off here to glance down at the paper in his hands. "Padalecki, Hodge, Puryear, Lewis, Freemont and Andersson will all have official interviews at podiums set up across the field. Everyone else, you have free reign to mingle. Reporters and publications and just plain weirdos from all over the world will be there, so make yourselves available, but be careful what you say. Have fun, but stay smart. Any questions?"

A few hands go up and Kripke spends the next twenty minutes answering to the best of his ability before wrapping up and letting them off for the rest of the afternoon. It's their last free evening before the real work starts and Jensen thinks about maybe spending a few hours in the city. But then Jeff stretches in the seat next to him, his hand bumping Jensen's shoulder as he flashes a smile.

"Wanna take a look at some of the film from Saturday?"

And Jensen laughs, nodding as he gets to his feet. Says, "Wow, we sure know how to party, huh?"

:::

Media Day is an hour and a half of pure chaos: players and coaches and media all intermingling, a veritable maze of cameras and microphones and audio equipment. Jensen does what he can to stay clear of the mess, wandering the fringes with his arms crossed over his chest. Most players stay clumped together in groups of ten or so, fielding questions while laughing along with some of the more outrageous media personalities. Others mingle on their own, happy to be pulled aside for short interviews here and there before carrying on with their business.

Danneel's there, buried in the mess with her small crew, occasionally pulling aside a player for questions and sometimes just talking to someone Jensen assumes is her producer, their heads bent in low as they scope the crowd. She's completely in her element, poised and confident and gorgeous and Jensen can't help but feel proud. The tables have turned if only for an hour; here he can be a spectator as she performs her magic instead of the other way around.

Eventually, people find him, cameras swivel in his direction and mics are shoved in his face as the questions start. They're all pretty basic, most everyone wanting to know what he's done to prepare for the game, how he thinks Jared will fare with his injured shoulder and his opinion on Porter's ability should he need to step up. He gives all the basic answers, his smile easy if not completely genuine.

A guy in a purple leisure suit asks him his favorite brand of condom and Jensen nearly chokes on his laughter before managing to evade giving an actual answer. A woman from Italy wants to know his celebrity crush and he narrowly avoids getting dragged into a spontaneous arm wrestling competition against a guy sporting a Harley Davidson bandanna.

Only one guy tries to ask Jensen about the rumor and Jensen shuts him down immediately, smiling the whole time.

Eventually, the media is called out, the players and coaches staying to pose for the team photo out on the field. The guys swap stories, trying to one-up each other on the level of absurdity from the day, and then it's time to head back to the hotel for the afternoon meeting.

Once there, the mood changes drastically.

Kripke stands at the front of the room as he waits for the players to quiet, makes a show of checking his watch before declaring, "Okay, we have 120 hours until kickoff. Not 120 practice hours, but _total_ hours. One hundred and twenty hours from right this second to the minute we're standing under the lights in the Rose Bowl making history. Anybody wanna do the math and tell me how many hours between now and then we'll actually get to spend in practice?"

"Seven and a half," Jared replies from the second row and Kripke points a finger at him.

"Seven and a half. Exactly. That's less than most people's typical work day." He pauses then, letting it sink in as he paces the front of the room. "Seven and a half hours to prepare to face this supposed Denver Dynasty. Do you think you can do it? Do you think that's enough time?"

There's a rumble of sound from the back of the room and Kripke stops his pacing and leans forward. "What was that?"

"Yes, sir," a single voice replies.

"Can you say that again?"

The whole room answers this time. A boom of, "Yes! Sir!"

Nodding, Kripke relaxes a little. There's no hint of a smile on his face. "I think so, too. I think we're going to need and _use_ every last second of those seven and a half hours, but I think it's all the time we require to get this job done. _However_ ," he adds, "I need every last one of you to give me absolutely everything you've got in these last few days. In practice, in meetings and every second in between. I need you focused, I need you prepared on one thing and one thing only. We're almost there. Just five days away from what this game is all about. Let's get busy."

:::

Their first field practice is Wednesday morning at the Coliseum in downtown Los Angeles. As expected, they're greeted by a horde of fans outside the stadium, the local police keeping them under control as the buses pull through. It isn't unlike driving into the stadium for home games and the guys eat it up, waving at the fans through the tinted glass, pointing and laughing at a few of the more original handmade signs and costumes. The Coliseum is across the street from USC's campus so a lot of the fans appear to be college kids, male and female alike, and more than a few players are exceptionally vocal in their appreciation of the women seen cheering them on.

They manage to calm down once they're in the locker room and it's all business the second they step out onto the field. It's a tough practice, energy kept high throughout as the coaches aim to get in as much work as possible.

Jensen spends his entire time practically glued to Jared's side, hounding him non-stop on his footwork and timing through the seven-on-sevens and reminding him to keep aware of his left side.

It's not so different than normal except for the way Jared barely looks at him, lips drawn in a thin line as he goes through the motions. He's listening, turning his shoulder and planting his feet as Jensen instructs, firing off passes down the line for thirty, forty and fifty yards. But not engaging at all, not acknowledging Jensen beyond the requisite, "Yes, Coach," and "Got it, Coach."

Jensen tells himself he's okay with it, that it's _good_ , even. That it's exactly what's necessary.

After Jared fakes a hand-off and then drops back for a perfect pass up the right sideline, Jensen thumps a hand against his notepad and shouts, "Good! Just like that! Nice work, Fourteen!"

Jared doesn't even crack a smile and Jensen has a harder time convincing himself it doesn't sting.

Team and position meetings are held later that afternoon back at the hotel, Jensen showing clips from Saturday's practice, highlighting the mistakes they're still making. Jared listens and takes notes and answers the questions Jensen throws at him, but he's distant the entire time.

Thursday and Friday are largely the same with morning practice at the Coliseum and position and team meetings back at the hotel in the afternoon. Jared seems to loosen up a little halfway through Thursday's practice, finally smiling a little during the drills and joking with a few of the guys. His good mood isn't ever really aimed in Jensen's direction, but Jensen brushes the outer edges of it occasionally, gets the tail end of a smile once or twice. He tells himself it's enough.

By Friday, Jared's talking to him again.

"I've got brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew and both parents," Jared says during a break between timing drills. He has his hair pulled back away from his forehead in a half-assed pony tail and he's still breathing a little hard from the workout, squinting against the Californian sun. And he's smiling. "Sister's not comin', though. Thinks she might be bad luck since she went to the last two. Totally lame excuse."

Jensen can't help but laugh as he gives an easy shrug. "She has a point."

"Fuck you. Should've known you'd take her side," Jared says. But there's no heat in the words, his lips curved in a small grin. "What about you? The boys coming?"

"Yeah. They're flying in tomorrow."

"And your parents?"

"Nah," Jensen replies, catching a ball Charles lobs in his direction and handing it over to Jared for the next drill. "Not really their thing. Mom likes the commercials."

"Can't blame her," Jared says, his smile quick but warm as he jogs back out onto the field.

Unable to keep his own smile off his face, Jensen shakes his head and calls out, "Alright, pass route two-one. QB rotation: Padalecki, Porter, Padalecki, Maryland, Padalecki. Let's go!"

:::

The team meeting that night runs twenty minutes late so Kripke can go over the schedule for the next two days. The walk-through is planned for Saturday morning at the Coliseum followed by lunch and a team meeting back at the hotel. Immediately after, they're scheduled to meet with ABC to have live-action 3D shots taken for the roster filler portions of the national broadcast, as well as a few in-depth interviews with selected members of the squad.

"Padalecki, Freemont and Lewis," Kripke says. "You three may be stuck there awhile. Plan accordingly."

The coaches aren't needed for the ABC portion of the day, but last-minute game preparations to take care, their schedule is far from free.

It's nearly 9:00 by the time Jensen's released from his duties and, while he knows some of the coaches are planning on hitting up the hotel bar for a few rounds, his sole intent is to grab a shower and crash.

He isn't expecting Jared to stop by half an hour later with two bottles of Corona tucked under one arm and both hands full of tiny liquor bottles.

"Didn't wanna show up empty-handed," he says in response to Jensen's raised brow. The phrase pokes at a memory and Jensen laughs quietly and, despite his better judgment, steps back to let Jared inside.

"Let's start with JD and work our way up," he says as Jared carefully deposits the tiny bottles onto the top of the hotel dresser, meticulously righting each one before twisting off the cap of the Jack Daniel's. He takes a quick swig and then offers it to Jensen, fingers brushing at the hand-off. "So. You here for a reason?" he asks, not yet taking a drink.

"What, no, 'Hey, how are you?' Harsh, man."

Jared's smiling as he says it, but Jensen doesn't miss the nervous tremor in his voice. It sounds off, totally unnatural coming from Jared and he hesitates for a second before taking a slow sip of his drink.

"Right, well," Jared says then, his strained smile slipping as he grabs one of the Coronas and untwists the cap, face pulling into a grimace with the effort. "I'm having a totally shitty week, thanks for asking."

"That what you came to tell me?" Jensen replies, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"No," Jared says and then frowns. "Well, actually, yeah. Kind of."

Jensen takes a breath and walks to the foot of the bed, sitting on the edge as he motions for Jared to continue. He's trying to appear indifferent, but there's already an uncomfortable buzzing under his skin the JD is doing nothing to suppress. Which clearly means he needs more.

Jared watches him and inhales, raises one arm like he's about start in before taking another drink of his beer instead. He wipes the corner of his mouth dry with the back of his hand and then sets his bottle aside before turning to face Jensen again, both hands on his hips and shoulders squared in a tense line. The fabric under Jared's armpits is already dark with sweat.

"I have an interview with Rich Eisen tomorrow," Jared finally says.

"Okay?"

"So you know he's gonna ask about this. Us."

Sagging, Jensen lets out a breath, rests one hand on his knee as he half hunches over. "Jared--"

"No, listen to me; I need to explain this," Jared says, words rushed and one hand held out like he can physically stop Jensen from speaking. "I'm gonna tell him exactly what I've been telling everyone else since this got out. That Hamilton's full of shit and there is absolutely no way he saw whatever it is he thinks he saw. He's full of shit, pure and simple. Because none of that's a lie, right? It's not even stretching the truth."

"Jesus, Jared, just tell him it's _all_ a lie and be done with it."

"No. I'm not doing that."

" _Why_? The sooner you address this head-on, the sooner it'll go away."

"You said it yourself; this is never going away," Jared says, voice sharper. "It doesn't matter if I straight-up lie and start dating a super model, people are always gonna wonder, right? So what the fuck does it matter?"

Letting out a rough breath, Jensen drops forward and rubs a hand over his face. Says, "Jared, you don't want to do this."

"You don't get to decide what I want."

"We're talking about your career here. Your entire future in the league, as a player or coach or--"

"I know exactly what we're talking about," Jared snaps. "We're talking about _my_ career, _my_ future, _my_ choice."

Jensen jumps to his feet then, fear and anger spurring him forward. "And what about me? You're not the only one at risk here, Jared. The second you confirm anything, I'll have a royal shitstorm on my hands."

"Jesus, I _know_ that," Jared says, his tone shifting slightly, more imploring than angry. "I'm not about to go out there and say it's all _true_."

"What _are_ you saying?"

"I'm just saying I'm tired of lying. That should sound familiar, right?"

Jensen feels his jaw clench at that, his fingers twitching at his side. "It's not the same thing and you know it."

"Actually, it's exactly the same thing."

"No, it's not. You're not _gay_ , Jared! It's not the same thing!"

"I don't know what the fuck I am," Jared says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly wound up and restless. "And who gets to decide anyway? Why do I have to be one thing or the other? I've been in serious, long-term relationships with two women so clearly I'm straight, right? And I did love them, Jensen," he adds quickly, like Jensen's even thinking of arguing. "Both of them. Maybe not enough or as much as they deserved, but I did love them."

"I know you did, that's what I'm--"

Eyes narrowed and lips stretched into a thin line, Jared gestures him silent and Jensen complies, mouth snapping shut.

When Jared continues, his voice is quieter. "But if I'm so straight then why have I spent the last ten years of my life so fucked up over you?"

It's not what Jensen's expecting to hear and it effectively stops short everything he'd been thinking to say, breath catching high in his chest and staying there.

"Can't answer that one, can you?" Jared says, lips twisting in a bitter sort of smile. "Where do I fit, Jensen? Gay, straight, bi, what? Tell me what box you've got for me and I'll hop right on in."

"Jared."

"I will do _anything_ ," Jared pushes on, his tone shifting considerably to something Jensen can only define as pleading. "Anything you want. I'll retire tomorrow and call a press conference to tell the entire world the whole goddamn truth. Or I'll come out and keep playing until nobody wants me anymore. Or I'll keep playing and not say a word about anything to anyone. I'll lie to them all just like you keep saying you want me to. I'll tell them whatever you want. And I'll do it all with a huge fucking smile too, just so long as--" He stops there for a second, huffing a frustrated breath as he drops his arms to his sides. "I just need _you_ to be the one person I don't have to lie to."

Jensen falters under the weight of the silence that settles in then, pulse echoing loud in his ears as his mouth goes dry. Jared doesn't move. Jensen looks down at the tiny bottle of Jack in his hand and takes the few shaky steps to set it down on the dresser and then crosses his arms.

"I can't-- this isn't a decision I can make for you."

"I know," Jared says, his voice again surprisingly calm. "But I'm kind of at a loss here. So, just. Consider this my Hail Mary or something. I don't know what else to do."

He sounds completely defeated. Worn down and exhausted in a way Jensen's sure he's never seen before. It's oddly heartbreaking and Jensen fights the rise it brings to his throat. Jared still doesn't move, brows drawn tight as he regards Jensen carefully.

"I'm not letting you retire," Jensen says, somehow managing to keep his voice even. "Provided you don't get your head knocked in again, we both know you're not done yet. Okay?"

Nodding, Jared swallows. Jensen tracks the bob of his Adam's apple and feels a pull low in his gut, fingers twitching with the need to touch.

"Everything else..." he continues, arms dropping to rest his hands on his hips. "I don't know. I guess. Maybe we can figure that out later."

Jared arches an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth curving upward. "We?"

Jensen breathes a laugh, quiet and tentative and finally reaches a hand out to curl his fingers in the front of Jared's shirt, just enough to give a light tug. Jared leans into it, a gentle sway forward and lifts a hand to Jensen's face, thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw. It sends a slow roll of heat down Jensen's spine and he turns his head just enough to press his lips to the pad of Jared's thumb, taking a few seconds to just breathe and process and wonder who the fuck he was ever trying to kid in thinking he could deny himself this.

With some effort he pulls away, his free hand reaching up to tug Jared's hand away from his face, squeezing it lightly.

"Let's just take care of this game first, alright?"

Jared grins down at him and curls his fingers over Jensen's. "You got it, Coach."

:::

Saturday is a whirlwind with practice and meetings and ABC and more meetings. Around noon, Jensen gets a call from Josh letting him know they've landed and are on their way to the hotel, and Jensen promises to check in with them later that night if only for a few minutes. He spends most of his evening in one of the hotel's conference rooms with the rest of the coaching staff, finalizing the projected game plan.

"Porter's looking good," Kripke says while they're discussing the QB situation and Jensen nods, quickly flipping through his notes.

"He's been working hard," he says, glancing over the practice stats. "I'm afraid his inexperience might show if we're forced to play him, but I fully believe he'll give us the best he's got. He's a different player now than he was at the beginning of the year."

"And Maryland?"

"Good, but he's not at Porter's level," Jeff says, tapping his pen idly against the edge of the table. "I say we still dress him just in case, but he's definitely our number three."

Kripke nods, making a note before steering the conversation to the running backs.

They take a break about a half an hour later and Jensen gets in some time with his nephews, both boys eager to tell him everything they've already done that day and everything they have planned for the coming week, once the Super Bowl is over.

"Disneyland, Uncle Jensen!" Brodie says. "Do you wanna come?"

"Hey, maybe," Jensen replies, sharing a grin with Allie. "Kinda depends on what happens tomorrow, but I'll definitely let you know, okay?"

"We're doing Universal Studios, too," Logan says. "Dad says we'll see famous people there."

Jensen glances up, sharing a look with Josh. "You're just hoping to see Steve Guttenberg again," he says, grinning. "That was like, the highlight of your entire childhood, wasn't it?"

"Man, he gave me a hug. A _hug_. And told me I was awesome."

Smirking, Jensen just shakes his head as Logan asks, "Who's Steve Guttenberg?"

He says his goodbyes minutes later, all four of them wishing him good luck before he sees them off to dinner.

The remainder of his evening is spent holed up with the coaches, reviewing and planning and adjusting. It's exhausting work, but necessary and the room buzzes with determination, a heady desire to win unlike anything Jensen's experienced.

It's just after 10:00 when they call it a night, Kripke pulling in a deep breath as he stretches back. Says, "Alright, I think we're as prepared as we're ever gonna be. Let's all get a good night's sleep and then kick ourselves some Bronco ass."

Jeff catches him just outside the door, a warm hand on Jensen's shoulder as they fall into step together. "Just wanted to say good work this week," he says. "I've been really impressed with how you've handled everything."

Jensen doesn't have to wonder what Jeff's referring to and only shrugs as they step into the elevators. "Gotta roll with the punches, right?"

"Right, well. Some punches are easier to dodge than others," Jeff says with a grin. "And you've done a damn good job of keepin' your head on straight. Staying focused, doin' your job. Not that I expected anything less from you, but it's still good to be reminded."

Not sure how to respond, Jensen just gives another shrug.

Jeff lets out a breath and says, "Anyway, you know I'm here for you, right? I mean, I figure you do, but just in case. Whether this rumor is true or not, I don't care; you're a great coach and Jared's a great player. As long as you keep it professional where it counts and we keep winning, I couldn't really care less what you're doing in your free time."

Jensen blinks, completely caught off guard for a moment. "Jeff, are you giving me your blessing to screw around with a player?" he manages then, unsure whether or not to laugh.

"No!" Jeff replies and then seems to reconsider, his lips twitching into a half smile. "Well, maybe. Sort of. Look, I'm not saying I think you or anyone should make it a habit and I know I'm likely really in the minority on this in the first place, but... hell, shit happens, right? Every guy on this team is an adult and it's not like you control anyone's contract so what's the big deal?"

The elevator slows to a stop on Jensen's floor and, grinning, he moves to step off, glancing back at Jeff.

"You're definitely in the minority," he says. "But, uh... thanks. I think."

Jeff's laughs then, a low, warm sound as he waves Jensen off. "Go. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

"So I hear," Jensen replies, smiling wide as the silver doors slide shut.

The red light on his hotel phone is blinking when he gets to his room and he drops his bag of notes and e-pad on the nearby table before taking a seat on the edge of the bed and picking up the receiver.

He's not at all surprised when it's Jared's voice on the other end.

"Hey, man. I know you're off fulfilling your boring coaching duties right now, but uh... just wanted to call and wish you luck tomorrow. I promise I'll do my best to make you not look like too much of a jackass, okay? Promise I'll stay aware of my left side and keep an eye on their DB. Just give me the plays and I'll do you proud. And, uh. Yeah. Good luck. Goodnight."


	15. Chapter 15

Back in college, both as a player and a coach, Jensen had participated in his share of bowl games so he recognizes the adrenaline rush of a big game and the inherent pomp and circumstance of a huge, nationally televised event. But even the fanfare surrounding the one BCS game he'd coached is nothing compared to the swarm of fans, media and vehicles crammed into the parking lot of the Rose Bowl on the morning of Super Bowl Sunday. There are stages and booths set up all over the place, countless cameras and sound equipment and satellite trucks mixed in with the typical tailgaters. People in Cowboys gear mix with people in Broncos gear and there are just as many, if not more, who don't appear loyal to one team over the other.

It's the closest thing to a carnival Jensen's ever seen at a football game and Jensen knows they're only seeing a fraction of the whole ordeal.

"Pretty incredible, huh?" Jared says, turning away from the window to flash Jensen a grin as the bus pulls past the barricades.

"It's a madhouse."

"Shoulda seen the one in New York. It was freezin' ass cold outside, snow comin' down, and people were all still out there, partyin' it up like it was eighty degrees. Crazy."

It isn't much quieter inside the stadium, though once they're in the locker room, the thick walls of solid cement block out most of the noise. Jensen goes through his typical routine, wandering out onto the field to jog a few laps as the players change into their uniforms. The field itself is real grass, which is something of a rarity within the league anymore as most stadiums find Astroturf cheaper and easier to maintain. Jensen takes a moment to revel in the soft press of soil underneath his feet and the fresh smell. Real grass tears up easier than turf and is much more susceptible to the weather, both issues they've had to consider in their game plan. Luckily, the forecast isn't calling for rain.

Per usual, the field is meticulously painted, white crisp lines marking the yardage from one end to the other. The only differences in design this time lie in the end zones. Instead of one team dominating the decor, one end zone is decorated orange and blue for the Broncos, the other silver and blue for the Cowboys, and smack in the middle of the 50-yard line is the official Super Bowl VL emblem complete with ornate Roman numerals.

Various stadium personnel, press and team representatives litter the field and sidelines, all of them diligently executing their own individual tasks, putting on the finishing touches in preparation for the game. It's a massive operation, far larger than anything Jensen's previously witnessed and he finds himself getting a little lost in it as he finishes his run.

Back in the locker room, he grabs a quick shower and changes and then spends a few minutes talking with his players one-on-one. Jared's by far the more relaxed of the three, one headphone bud in his ear as he tugs his jersey on over his pads and then sets them on the ledge outside his cube.

"How you feelin'? How's the arm?"

"Well, it's still attached," Jared says, smile loose as he tugs the other bud out of his ear. "Takin' that as a good sign."

Fighting a smile, Jensen arches an eyebrow. "Seriously, where's your pain level?"

Jared's smile doesn't slip any, but his tone shifts as he shrugs. "I'd give it about a two or a three right now. No one's tried beating me up yet so it's not too bad."

"Misha take a look at it?"

"Soon," Jared says, turning to grab his cleats out of his locker.

"Alright. I'm trusting you to tell me anything you think I should know."

Smirking again, Jared nods. "I'm fine, I promise. Nothin' to worry about."

"Yeah, it's just your arm. No biggie."

Jared laughs and Jensen turns to find Porter a few yards away fitting thigh pads into his football pants. Glancing up as Jensen nears, the kid manages a small smile.

"You're looking a little freaked," Jensen says, tone faintly teasing.

"I'm--" Porter stops himself and then lets out a laugh, head ducking briefly. "Big game."

"Hey, it's okay. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't overwhelmed by all this. We've both got," he checks his watch, "about two and a half hours to get it out of our systems."

Grinning, Porter nods as Jensen drops a hand on his shoulder.

"Seriously, you've got this. Just go out there and have a good time. Soak it all up. You got any idea how many guys wish they could be where you are right now?"

"I probably won't even play," Porter says and Jensen honestly can't tell if the kid's taking solace in that or not, and Jensen only shrugs, still smiling as he claps a hand to the side of Porter's neck and makes him look Jensen in the eyes.

"You're only one hit away. One hard knock to Jared's shoulder and you're our man. You gotta be ready."

Porter swallows. "Yes, Coach."

"Are you ready?"

Porter hesitates then, sucking in another quick breath before his lips curve into a smile and he gives a nod. When he speaks again, his voice is solid, more sure. "Yeah. I will be. I will be, Coach."

:::

They're trailing 14-0 by the end of the first quarter.

Kripke's not yet panicking, but Nguyen is practically livid. It's the worst the defense has performed all year, though Jensen thinks that has as much to do with the quality of their opponent as it does anything else. They simply haven't faced an offense this good all year.

Heading into the second quarter, the Cowboys finally manage a decent drive. Jensen hunches over his notes and rattles off plays to Jared with Kripke and Jeff occasionally jumping in to make adjustments. They advance nearly the entire length of the field before the Broncos hold them to a standstill at the 2-yard line, forcing them to settle for a field goal.

They don't score again, but neither do the Broncos and the score is 14-3 heading into the half.

Down on the field, both teams immediately head for the locker room and Jensen tugs off his headset.

"Well," Charles says, pushing up to his feet to stand next to Jensen. "That sure could've gone better."

Jensen can only agree with a wane smile before turning his attention back to the field where a crew of a hundred people swarm in to set up the stage for the halftime show. The Foo Fighters are performing and, while Jensen would actually kind of like to see them, he knows there isn't any way he'll be able to truly appreciate the performance right now. Couldn't even if they were winning.

Instead, he falls into his same routine, spending the time emptying his bladder, filling up his coffee and pacing the hall outside the booth for a solid five minutes. The halftime show is more than loud enough to hear the entire time, though it's more like whitenoise to what's going on in his own head and he barely notices when they stop, only clueing in when the crowd starts cheering and the stadium announcer booms through the tannoy.

He steps back into the booth with a couple minutes to spare and immediately grabs his headset, Charles dropping down in the seat next to him moments later.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," he mutters, sharing a brief glance with Jensen before scooting closer to the table ledge.

The Cowboys have first possession at the start of the half, but they don't even make it past midfield before being forced to punt. Luckily, the defense again holds strong, managing to keep the Broncos from scoring on their next drive and giving the Cowboys the ball minutes later. It's a deep punt though, setting them at their own 3-yard line and Jensen calls a quick pass to the outside to get them away from the danger of their own end zone. It works, gaining them a good four yards, but it's still well shy of a first down. It's still not enough.

The next play is an incomplete pass and Jensen curses under his breath as Kripke starts shouting at Chambers, the intended receiver.

On third down, Jared takes the snap and pulls his arm back for a shot up the right side, stops short when he notices both his receivers are covered.

"Left side!" Jensen shouts as #93 of the Broncos breaks past the front line. "Check your left! Left! Goddamnit, _left_!"

Jared notices the defender too late, just a half a second before being run down, sacked to the dirt at the Cowboys' 1-yard line. It's just one yard shy of a Broncos safety, but Jensen's less relieved by the near-miss than he is by the fact that Jared manages to get up with little difficulty, his trudge to the sidelines one of frustration and not further injury as far as he can tell.

On the very next play, the Broncos punt returner runs the ball right back into Cowboys territory.

"Goddamn mother of--" Beaver cuts himself off mid-curse, though Jensen is positive every player and coach on the team shares his sentiments. Especially when, just five plays later, the Broncos run into the end zone to knock the score up to 21-3.

"Okay," Jensen says through the comm link the second Jared pulls on his helmet, "Still plenty of time. I know you can do this, man. I've _seen_ you do this. Let's make it quick, but smart. Armageddon 83 Silver Poltergeist Ruby." It's a running play and it goes off perfectly, gaining them twelve yards and a first down and Jared manages to grab hold of the small sliver of momentum to guide the offense the rest of the way down the field, finishing it off with a thirty-three yard pass to Jake that Jake then runs in another twenty yards to grab them their first touchdown of the day.

The score narrows the lead to two touchdowns and Jensen pulls in a quick breath, adrenaline still pumping fast through his veins as the game heads into the fourth quarter, the Broncos now in possession.

It's a long drive, Denver managing to kill seven minutes as they work their way down the field. The Cowboys defense holds however, finally forcing them to punt and the Cowboys offense again takes the field.

Knowing Jared doesn't need any further pep talk, Jensen simply relays the play and holds his breath as Jared shouts it out at the line of scrimmage. He drops back into the pocket, looks left and then right, his arm coming back and then snapping forward with the release. But it's under-thrown and Broncos safety, Isaiah Thompson is there to grab it, tumbling to the turf with the ball in his arms.

"Shit! _Shit!_ "

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold up," Charles says, reaching for the switch on the booth television.

Still fuming, Jensen glances over to watch the replay, lips twisting into a smile of disbelief when the playback shows the ball touching the ground before Thompson's hands scoop it up, making it an incomplete pass and not an interception.

"Challenge it," Jensen says into his headset and Kripke doesn't even question, just throws the red flag onto the field before the Broncos offense can run their first play.

After a few minutes deliberation by the officials, the challenge is deemed in the Cowboys' favor and they recover the ball on their own 30-yard line. Once again, Jared takes the field and this time, he pounds it out, carrying the Cowboys down the field in four quick plays, all of them lengthy passes up the side, conserving as much time as possible. Puryear tops it off with a three-yard run into the end zone and, just like that, the score is 21-16.

Before the offense even begins jogging towards the sidelines, Kripke says, "Two-point," into the headset and Jensen reaches for his notes. As it stands, an extra point kick will still leave the Cowboys trailing by four, whereas a successful two-point conversion will make the score 21-18 and leave the Cowboys within a field goal of tying the game and sending it in into overtime.

Adrenaline pumping, Jensen settles on a screen pass and switches over the comm link. "Sambora 79 Pumpkin Triple-X Automatic," he says as Jared approaches the line.

At the snap, Jared drops back and turns, getting a quick pass off to Puryear. But the Broncos read it perfectly, the defensive line preventing him from pushing into the end zone and the score remains at 21-16 with less than two minutes left in the game.

However, once again the Cowboys defense holds strong and the Broncos are forced to punt, giving the Cowboys another chance.

Starting off at their own 15-yard line isn't the best field position, and it's worse when their first play costs them three yards, their second resulting in a holding call that pushes them back a further five. An incomplete pass on third down sets them up for 4th-and-18 from the 8-yard line and no option but to go for it. Jensen whips out a play, rattling it off as Jared heads into the huddle. It's a pass call if only because they virtually have no other choice and Jensen is banking on the Broncos assuming Jared will throw to the side he's been favoring all night and they can instead get a shot off to Aldis on the left.

Except that's not at all what happens.

Instead, Iupati completely misreads the defender he's blocking and Jared gets run to the ground before he can even think of throwing the ball, a sack and immediate loss of possession and the stadium nearly explodes in cheers.

It's a devastating play all on its own, but it's made worse when Jared is slow to get up, his body bent and hunched to one side as he makes his way to the sidelines.

"Oh, shit," Jensen murmurs, anxiety twisting tight in his stomach as he switches the comm link. "Talk to me, Jeff."

"Give me a few minutes," Jeff shoots back and Jensen watches as Jared tugs off his helmet with his right hand and heads straight for the bench, face twisted in a tight grimace. Misha crouches down in front of him, clearly gauging Jared's pain level before standing up to examine the injury through his padding as well as he can. The defense heads out onto the field.

With the Cowboys still in possession of all their time-outs, the Broncos can't simply kneel out the remaining one minute and twenty seconds. But they're only two yards away from the end zone, just two yards from one more touchdown that will secure their win. Jensen has one eye on the game and one eye on Jared when the play starts, sure they're only seconds away from officially losing the Super Bowl.

As a result, he nearly misses the Broncos running back fumbling the ball and Harrison Andersson recovering and taking off down the field. Immediately, every coach in the booth is on his feet, shouting and cheering on the 6'3", 284 pound defensive end. But Broncos quarterback, Tim Tebow, catches up with him and makes a lunging tackle, dragging Andersson down by his ankle at the Cowboys 40-yard line.

The cheers in the stadium are nearly deafening as Andersson makes his way off the field, winded and grinning, the ball still clutched protectively under one arm.

With less than a minute remaining, the Cowboys have one more chance.

"He's goin' in," Jeff says before Jensen can even ask.

Frowning, Jensen watches Jared shove his helmet back on, still clearly favoring his injured shoulder. "We sure that's a good idea?"

"You try stoppin' him."

"Jesus. Okay," Jensen says, sucking in a quick breath before switching his comm link back to Jared. "Alright, man. You're fucking crazy, I hope you know that. Let's do Winchester Silver-tongue Mary Five-point Michael. We still have three time-outs, Jared. We're good here. And keep aware of your left side, dipshit, I don't know how many fucking times I gotta tell you."

With obvious effort, Jared does just as he's told, managing to drive the offense into Broncos territory, using up only two time-outs in the process. But their final time-out does them no good when they hit fourth-and-twelve with the end zone still forty-five yards away.

There's no option but to go for it. A field goal is both a long shot and completely useless while a punt will place possession back in the Broncos hands and end the game.

It's down to one play. All or nothing.

This time Jensen doesn't bother hiding the call with code; there's no point. The offense lines up at scrimmage and Jared makes the count and fields the snap, drops back into the pocket as every single receiver sprints toward the end zone. Of course, every single Broncos cornerback and safety heads the same direction and Jared hurls the ball through the air, the trajectory a perfect arc, and five players jump up to catch it -- two Cowboys and three Broncos.

It's Hodge who first gets a hand on it, reaching and brushing the leather with his fingertips. But it's not enough. The ball hits a Broncos players' shoulder pad, bounces gracelessly and then falls to the ground.

"Flag, flag. Please tell me there's a flag," Charles mutters, his words hushed as he hopes for one last saving grace.

There's no flag.

The play is dead on an incomplete pass and with ten seconds left on the clock, the Cowboys have just lost the Super Bowl.

:::

Jensen stays in the booth for awhile afterward, watching as the Broncos players flood the field, jubilant in their victory, streamers and confetti exploding from large barrels at either end zone. It's loud and strangely beautiful, though Jensen is sure he's not appreciating it fully. His heart is too heavy, adrenaline already fading into exhaustion.

He's not quite masochistic enough to stay for the trophy ceremony.

The mood in the Cowboys locker room is downright morose. Kripke's already standing atop a plastic chair giving his speech as the players, all in various degrees of undress, listen carefully. Every face is the picture of disappointment, some guys visibly more upset than others. They all look worn, beaten to the core. It's been six long months of game after game, practice after practice, meeting after meeting, six months of excruciating physical and mental work to get to this point. To end up just one of thirty-one teams who didn't win the Super Bowl.

"After it's all said and done, though," Kripke says. "I'm proud of you. Extremely, extremely proud of each and every one of you. This was a tough game from start to finish, no doubt about it. We knew Denver would be a ferocious competitor and we were right. But I'm proud of all of you for not ever giving up when I know a whole hell of a lot of other guys would've. It says something about each of you, of who you are as players and as men."

He pauses then, swallowing as he looks out across the room. He's not crying, but it's clear the words aren't coming easily, hands fidgeting a little at his hips.

"I know we're all disappointed right now and it's gonna take awhile to get over it and that's fine. The hotel's got a fully stocked bar, we should be good." He gets a few laughs at that, though they're strained and short and Kripke himself barely even smiles. "But once we have a little distance, I hope we can all appreciate what we _did_ do. Not just tonight but this entire season. We're one of just two teams that even made it to this point and yes, we lost, but somebody had to and we sure as hell put up a damn good fight."

The room is still quiet, nobody so much as giving a a word of acknowledgment. There's occasionally a crash of pads to the floor, a helmet against the wooden locker cube, cleats falling gracelessly.

Kripke pulls in a breath, his voice quieter when he speaks again. "To be honest with you, I'm gettin' kinda tired of losing this game. Three times in seven years, guys. I would really _really_ like to know what it feels like to win and I'm sure I'm not the only one." Someone coughs from a few yards away, the only sound to break the silence. "But you know what? Okay, I know it's way too early to be making statements like this, but this team, the pure talent we have here, all you young guys and all you experienced veterans? This was Denver's year, I don't wanna take anything away from what they rightfully earned. But next year is ours. You proved that tonight. You proved you have the _heart_. So we're gonna go back to the hotel and spend a solid twenty-four hours licking our wounds and then we're flying back to Dallas and getting to work. Alright?"

There's only a low murmur in reply, but Kripke doesn't push it, just gives a small, tired smile.

"Yeah, I hear you," he says in sympathy and then looks across the room to nod at Aldis who's standing near the back. Says, "Hey, Hodge. Call us out."

The resulting team cheer lacks its typical fervor, but it rises near the end, voices building to a crescendo before breaking out into, "GO COWBOYS!" at the very end.

Despite the ache of defeat still heavy in his belly, Jensen finds himself smiling.

:::

Jared misses the entirety of Kripke's speech. He's stuck in the training room, sitting atop the metal slab of the medical table, shirtless with his legs hanging over the sides, left shoulder already bandaged and arm in a sling. He looks up when Jensen steps in.

"So according to Misha, I'm up to a Type II," he says, his voice dropping into a sing-song as he adds, "Mooovin' on up..."

Jensen smiles just a little and huffs a laugh as he steps forward. "How's the pain?"

"Oh, pretty fuckin' brutal," Jared replies.

Jensen considers delivering a snide remark in response, something about how maybe Jared would be doing better if he hadn't played the last minute and a half on a busted shoulder. Except he knows why Jared did it and, if anything, it only makes Jensen that much more certain of Jared's place among the best of the best. There aren't too many quarterbacks like Jared in the league anymore, guys tough to the bone, willing to take hits week after week and get right back in there to take more when it really counts. Jared's the kind of quarterback Jensen always wanted to be; the kind of quarterback Jensen wants to _make_.

So instead he says, "What's the outlook? Should we cut it off and get you a new one?"

"Six to eight weeks," Jared replies, his smile slipping into a brief wince as he pulls in a breath. "Rest, ice and heat, anti-inflammatories and some good ol' PT and I should be good as new."

"That a promise?"

Jared laughs then, the sound a little strained as he tries to sit up straighter. "God, it'd better be," he says, glancing over when Misha walks back into the room. "I'm gettin' tired of this shit."

Misha arches an eyebrow. "Yeah, well you and me both," he mutters, leaning in close to carefully remove the ice pack from Jared's shoulder. "This time of year sucks; you guys get crazier and whinier."

"You love it."

"I'm considering a career change. Hear the Costco down the street is hiring."

"Oh yeah," Jared says, fighting a grin. "They pay pretty well, too."

"And have excellent benefits," Misha agrees, deadpan as he unwraps Jared's shoulder. "You need something, Coach Ackles?"

"Just checkin' in," Jensen says, trying to hide his own amusement.

Sighing, Misha says, "Yeah, I figured," as he pulls off the last of the bandage. "We're looking at a busted shoulder and bruised ribs as well as some soreness in the lower back that may simply be an aggravated older injury. Total parts and labor comes to about two grand; I take cash and credit. No personal checks."

"Put it on my tab," Jensen says with a quiet laugh then nods over to Jared. "You gonna be good getting back?"

Jared just grins. "Still got my legs. You headin' out?"

"Yeah. Gonna try and meet up with Josh. See if I can shoehorn my way into their Disneyland plans for the week."

"I thought only the winners got to do Disneyland," Jared says, his smile again only faltering when Misha adjusts the strap of his sling.

"That's Disney _World_ ," Jensen replies. "Big difference."

"Right, right," Jared says, grin back in full forces as he gives a nod. "Well, say hi to Mickey for me."

"I'll catch up with you in Dallas, alright?" Jensen says, finally heading for the door.

Jared watches him the whole time, smile taking up his entire face as he says, "Yeah, you'd better." It sounds more like a promise than a threat.

:::

Jensen takes the week after the Super Bowl to explore Los Angeles with his nephews. They hit up Disneyland and Universal Studios and Venice Beach, Hollywood and Santa Monica. Logan and Brodie both love it, especially when Jensen gets asked for autographs a couple times, something close to pride shining in their eyes as they look on.

All-in-all, it's one of the better weeks he's had in awhile though tiring in an entirely different way than he's accostomed to. He certainly appreciates the role of a parent on a whole different level by the time they head home on Saturday.

He spends the weekend catching up on sleep, doing laundry and avoiding anything and everything on the NFL Network before heading back to Valley Ranch on Monday morning where he finds Kripke really hadn't been joking about getting right back to work. There's a six-inch stack of papers on Jensen's desk when he walks in, a note stuck to the top that says simply, 'Study these.' Upon closer inspection, Jensen finds they're pamphlets of bios and stats on just about every junior and senior eligible for the draft, not just quarterbacks but every single offensive position.

He goes to grab himself another coffee.

It isn't until Wednesday that he really has enough time to visit Jared, showing up in the late afternoon with a six-pack of Dr Pepper and burgers.

"Hey," Jared says when he opens the door, his face breaking out into a slow smile. "Hi. I wasn't-- Come in."

Jared's arm is still in a sling, which makes it a little more difficult for him to wrangle the dogs, but Jensen wades his way through, Harley and Sadie both clearly pleased to see him.

"Mmm, I smell onion rings," Jared says, grabbing the soda with his good hand before leading Jensen into the kitchen.

Laughing, Jensen holds the bag of food up high and gives Harley a gentle shove aside as he replies, "So do your dogs."

"Harley, settle," Jared says, his tone shifting to low and firm even as his smile remains unchanged. "Where's your manners, boy? Not cool."

Jensen sets the bag on the counter and starts pulling out the food one foiled wrapper at a time. "So, seeing as you're spending at least the first month of the offseason on your ass, I only got you one bacon cheeseburger," Jensen says, peering into the bag. "Last thing we need is a 300 pound QB come minicamp."

He expects Jared to laugh or call him on his obvious bullshit, make some cocky remark about his superhuman metabolism. What he doesn't expect is Jared's right arm hooking around his middle or Jared's lips brushing against his ear, voice low and teasing as he says, "You are so full of shit."

He tenses instinctively, but Jared's hold doesn't relax any and Jensen manages to turn his head enough to look back over his shoulder, grinning. "Better be careful," he says, the pitch of his voice dropping. "You're not too much of a hotshot with only one arm."

"Wanna bet?" Jared says, teeth flashing as he wraps one hand around Jensen's wrist and yanks, spinning him around before pressing in close, his injured arm nestled between them. He raises an eyebrow as if to say, ' _Check that shit out_ ,' and Jensen doesn't know whether to be turned on, vaguely embarrassed or just really amused.

"Dude, why didn't you ever do _Dancing With the Stars_?" he says, settling on a combination of all three. The edge of the countertop digs into the small of his back as Jared presses in a little closer, eyes dark and smile damn near devious. Jensen tilts his chin upward and arches an eyebrow. Says, "Seriously missed your calling."

He isn't at all surprised when Jared only answers with a kiss. It's soft at first, a light, lingering press before Jared releases Jensen's wrist to cradle the side of his face, a swipe of his thumb against Jensen's cheek just enough to make Jensen open up, exhaling as Jared's tongue traces his bottom lip and then licks into him.

It ends far quicker than Jensen's ready for, his eyes blinking open as Jared pulls back with a faint grin. "I've been dying to do that for the past two weeks," he says and Jensen feels his face flush hot.

They eat in the living room, Jared hunched forward on the couch, carefully shoveling in his food with one hand while Harley and Sadie watch his every movement from five feet away. Jensen occasionally tosses them fries when Jared gives the okay, though it seems to do little to appease them.

"So we should talk," Jared says halfway through his second burger.

"Okay," Jensen says, swiping two fries through a puddle of ketchup. "Should I take a few minutes to prepare myself first?"

He's joking, but the quiet laugh Jared gives as he says, "Yeah, maybe," immediately makes Jensen tense. Jared shifts against the couch, visibly hesitating as he sets aside his burger and glances over at Jensen. "I, uh. I had my agent okay an interview with Richard Speight at _Sports Illustrated_. It's in a couple weeks, just a post-Super Bowl kind of blurb thing. For now."

"... For now?"

"Well, he might have a bigger story by the time we're done," Jared says, one corner of his mouth twitching like he can't decide whether to smile or frown.

Jensen's not an idiot and it doesn't take him long to put the pieces together. Pulling in a breath, he sinks back into the couch.

"I'm coming out, Jensen," Jared says. "And I know you're gonna try talkin' me out of it, but save your breath, okay? I've already made the decision."

"So, what? You're retiring?"

"No. And, before you ask, I'm already planning on talking to both Kripke and Jerry beforehand. I've prepared myself for whatever consequences this might bring."

It sounds rehearsed, like he's just telling Jensen what he thinks Jensen wants to hear, and Jensen can't help the spike of irritation. "Oh, really?" he replies, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. "You're fully prepared to face the end of your career?"

"It won't be the end of my career," Jared says, some of his calm noticeably fading. "That's part of why I'm doing it. To prove it can be done."

"Jared, you're already on your way out. You've got two, maybe three years left in you if another major injury doesn't take you out sooner."

"Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm your _coach_ , Jared. I'm being realistic."

"Well, _stop_ being my coach for a minute, okay?" Jared replies, voice sharper, edged with a hurt that knocks Jensen completely off balance. "I'm not asking for your permission," he continues. "I'm telling you. I'm doing this. The only reason I'm even bringing it up is because I want you to know _why_."

Jensen feels a nerve in his jaw twitch, but he manages a nod, attempting to calm the uncomfortable roll of his stomach. "Fine," he says on a quiet sigh, irritation still swirling under his skin though he's trying his hardest to hide it. "So tell me why."

Jared frowns, but pushes on, shifting to better face him.

"Couple reasons. Like I said, I want to prove a guy can come out in this league and still have a career. Whether that actually works or not, I don't know and neither do you. But I'm sure as hell gonna try. _Two_ ," he adds before Jensen can even think of putting up an argument, "I'm doing it 'cause I wanna show it can be done on my own terms. Westwick came out because he was basically blackmailed into it and I would bet you _anything_ he'd still be holed up in the closet right now if all that shit hadn't come out. With this... well, there's the rumor, but Grady couldn't and never will be able to offer any proof. It's all speculation and it could easily just be ignored--"

"And you don't think coming out won't just give that rumor more merit?" It's not really Jensen's intent to make this about him, but it's not only Jared's career at risk here. "You really don't think it won't make people wonder."

"I'm sure it will," Jared says, but he's smiling a little now. "But that'll be easy to spin. I can just say Grady probably saw us hanging out together a lot, which makes sense. And I can say the reason for that is because you became a kind of mentor for me really early on. Like, we'll say I told you even before the season started that I was thinking about coming out and you were there to help me figure out how to approach it, sharing with me your own personal experiences and stuff like that. And we both decided it'd be best if I waited until the end of the season so as to not cause a distraction or disruption to the team."

Scoffing quietly, Jensen rubs a hand over his face. As much as he wants to argue, it actually makes sense. The whole thing. It's not perfect and it's still walks the line between terrifying and just plain _stupid_ , but if Jared really is intent on doing this, it might actually be the best approach.

"You still think it's a bad idea," Jared says, his smile fading.

"Of course I think it's a bad idea," Jensen replies, but his tone isn't as harsh as before and Jared seems to relax a little. "It doesn't matter how you try to spin this, Jared, it's still a big deal. You're gonna make a whole lot of people really uncomfortable, including some of your teammates. Are you ready for that?"

"They've been alright with you this year."

"Not all of them," Jensen says. "Hell, look at Grady. The rest are just smart enough to keep their mouths shut and they might not be so willing when it's a teammate they have to deal with and not a coach."

"And you don't think I can handle that?" Jared asks.

Despite his better judgment, Jensen sighs and shakes his head. "Honestly, if any guy in this league can handle it, it's you," he says, his smile pained. "But it's-- I don't want you thinking it's all gonna blow over like no big deal just because some other guy did it first."

"I know it won't," Jared says. "But that's another reason I have to do it. So it's _not_ just Westwick anymore, you know? I'll be single-handedly doubling the number of gay players in the NFL."

The last piece is said with a hint of a grin and Jensen can't help letting his own sneak through.

"Look, I need to do this," Jared says this, his tone serious once more. "For all those reasons, but also just for me. You keep telling me you're tired of lying and hiding and you know what? So am I. And I know I'm not technically gay considering Gen and Sandy and the few dozen other women I've slept with in my life, but I do know I'm not straight. So wherever that puts me -- Bi, queer, whatever-the-fuck, I know just it's not 'normal' or whatever. It's not that easy." He quiets then for a second, brows creased as he watches Jensen carefully. "Do you get what I'm saying? I spent a long, long time trying to convince myself I fit some kind of mold. But I don't. I _don't_. It's that simple."

He pauses for a second, still watching intently, like he's nearly begging Jensen to understand. "I'm not completely straight and I'm not completely gay so I don't know where the hell that puts me," Jared continues, voice quieter as he shifts on the couch again, moving close enough that their knees nearly touch. "But I _do_ know I'm in love with you and have been for a long fuckin' time. Years. Maybe a decade."

Jared says it so casually, lets it drop like it's a fact, not open to debate. Jensen feels as though someone's just stolen all the air from the room and it must show on his face as Jared's expression breaks then, another smile curving his lips as he leans in.

"What, is that a surprise?" he says, sounding amused. "After all this, man, how can you even wonder anymore?"

"I didn't-- I don't--" Jensen says, the words stilted, tripping over the lump in his throat as he lets out a weak laugh. "I always figured I was just an experiment." He doesn't miss the flicker that passes over Jared's face then, guilt and genuine hurt mixing together before Jensen rushes to add, "No, hey, it wasn't. I mean, I was okay with that for awhile. I really was. I got it."

"You've never been an experiment."

"You had Sandy, Jared. You were in love with her, you were gonna marry her and start a family and I was okay with that."

"You were never an experiment," Jared says again, firmer this time. "I was young and confused, but I _swear_ to you, you were never that disposable to me. You just hit me out of nowhere and I didn't know what to _do_ , man. So I let you go. I tried convincing myself I would get over you, I met Gen and thought I could have a family because that's what I was supposed to want, right? That's what I was always supposed to want. But it's not what _she_ wanted and I didn't get it at the time, but that's not what I wanted either. Not really. Not with her. And then-- Fuck, you came _back_ and it completely threw me I knew I couldn't let it happen again. I couldn't let you just walk away and Jesus, when I found out about _Matt_..." He laughs then, a soft, strained sound, brings a hand up to scratch at his neck as he shakes his head.

Jensen doesn't say a word. Isn't sure he physically _can_. He feels twisted and turned around, his own heartbeat loud in his ears as Jared's smile falters.

"Am I alone in this?" he asks, his voice quieter, unsure. "I mean, I don't think I am, but you gotta tell me if--"

"No," Jensen finally manages, the word coming out rough before he pulls in a sharp breath and lets a smile crack his face. "You're not, I just-- I didn't--"

Jared's smile cuts him off, bright and wide and hiding absolutely nothing. Jensen stops long enough to appreciate it before shifting up and forward, taken by a sudden bone-deep need to taste it. Jared meets him halfway, grinning as their mouths collide, Jensen falling into it completely, hungry for it, whining as he licks deep into Jared's mouth, only pulling back minutes later to catch his breath. He feels like he's breaking, heart thudding triple time and mind swirling with terrifying revelations. Jared's the only thing keeping him together and Jensen clings to him, every kiss a confirmation, every slide of Jared's tongue a testament that there's no going back.

"Jesus," Jared says, panting as he pulls back to lick his lips. His eyes are dark and cheeks flushed and it takes everything in Jensen to not dive in for another taste. "Guess I shoulda mentioned it sooner."

Jensen laughs and presses in again. Mutters, "Asshole," against the curve of Jared's mouth before kissing him again. It's slower this time, wetter, and Jensen slides a hand into Jared's hair, keeping him there. Jared lets him control it, submitting with low, delicious little moans and Jensen's pressed to Jared's right side, trapping his one good arm between them, though Jared seems to be doing his best with it, fingers curled in the fabric of Jensen's t-shirt, tugging and eventually slipping beneath to touch Jensen's bare stomach.

It makes him shudder, lips falling slack as Jared whines beneath him and tips his head back, bottom lip catching against Jensen's upper one before Jensen exhales and says, "God, I need to fuck you." Jared's startled groan rocks through him and he can't help but grin as he loosens his grip on Jared's hair and drags a thumb down the side of his neck. "That a yes?"

" _Yes_ ," Jared says, words a hushed moan as he turns his head towards Jensen, eyes unbelievably dark.

Jensen takes the opportunity to steal another kiss, teeth scraping against Jared's lower lip when he breaks it off and struggles to his feet. "C'mon."

He has to physically help Jared off the couch, both of them careful of his left arm and then Jared's directly in his space again, towering over him and walking him backward towards the stairs. Jensen works his hands under Jared's t-shirt, fingers skimming over the expanse of toned skin as Jared grins down at him.

"Turn," he says when they reach the foot of the stairs, voice low, and Jensen reluctantly obeys, dropping one hand to adjust himself through his jeans before beginning his ascent, Jared fast on his heels.

They practically fall into Jared's bedroom moments later, Jensen tugging at Jared's shirt as Jared pins him, right forearm against the wall by Jensen's head, left trapped between them.

"Careful," Jensen says, the word muffled against Jared's lips before melting into a moan when Jared presses a lean thigh between his legs. And Jared just swallows it down, hips rocking forward as he fucks his tongue into Jensen's mouth, leaves him feeling sore and used when Jared finally pulls back again. They spend a long moment just staring at each other, Jared's lips reddened and spit-slick, a drop of sweat sliding down one temple, until Jensen gives him a light shove and slips free, pulls his shirt off in one easy motion.

Feeling Jared's eyes on him, he turns when he gets to the bed and drops down onto the edge to quickly work off his shoes and socks. The jeans go next, followed by his boxers, and he never once looks away from Jared. It's not exactly a show if only because Jensen doesn't really have the patience or inclination, but Jared is clearly enjoying it all the same, eyes wide and hungry as he steps forward.

"You need help with that?" Jensen asks, nodding at the sling once Jared's close enough to touch.

Shaking his head, Jared carefully ducks free of the contraption, wincing faintly as his arm loses the support and hangs at his side. Jensen doesn't ask about the shirt, just reaches forward to undo the buttons from sternum on down. Leaning in, he brush his lips across Jared's chest and grins when he feels Jared's sharp inhale, his hands smoothing down Jared's sides and resting at his hips.

"God. Jensen," Jared breathes, body arching into the touch as Jensen's mouths lower to circle around a pebbled nipple. He takes his time, reveling in the hitch of Jared's breath and every quiet whine before finally pulling back to slip Jared's shirt off his shoulders and start in on his lounge pants. They're only held up by a drawstring, which makes Jensen's job a lot easier and they fall away with a single tug, the sight of Jared's dick bobbing free both insanely hot and absolutely ridiculous both at once.

"Gettin' lazy in your old age?" Jensen says with a laugh, one hand smoothing down Jared's belly, tickling the trail of hair below his navel.

"Arm," Jared says, fighting his own grin. "One less layer to worry about when I gotta piss."

"Mmm," Jensen replies through a smirk, his hand sliding lower. He's rewarded when Jared gives a full-body shudder, mouth falling open on a soft groan as Jensen wraps his hand around him. "I'm thinking maybe you should make it a habit."

"Y-yeah?"

"Yeah," Jensen says, giving Jared's cock one solid stroke before releasing and nodding over towards the bed. "Lie down."

Jared's groan takes on a slightly different tone before he steps out of his pants and does as he's told. Watching him out the corner of his eye, Jensen grabs lube and a condom packet from Jared's nightstand and then knees his way onto the mattress, resting on his haunches at Jared's side. Jared grins up at him, hair falling over his eyes as he shifts to get closer, left arm still at his side, the right reaching up to graze Jensen's thigh.

Dropping the supplies on the nearest pillow, Jensen settles his hand on top of Jared's and says, "So how do you wanna do this?"

"Well, I was thinking your cock in my ass," Jared says as his legs slide across the bedding, restless. "That's a good start, right?"

"Funny," Jensen replies, unable to keep the smile off his face. "You know what I mean."

"I know that you're worrying too much. And if you say you're my coach and it's your job to worry, I will kill you."

Laughing despite himself, Jensen pushes Jared's hand off his thigh and repositions to kneel between Jared's spread legs, leaning up to crawl half over him. "If we fuck up your shoulder any worse, Misha will have my ass."

"No, Misha will have _my_ ass," Jared says. "Unless you want me to tell him just exactly how it got fucked up."

"He wouldn't believe it anyway."

"You wanna try it and find out?" Jared says, grinning wide as he hooks his hand over Jensen's hip and tugs. Not hard enough to actually make Jensen fall, but the intent is clear and Jensen settles onto him gently, tilting his hips so they line up, Jensen careful to rest most of his weight onto Jared's right side. Biting back a groan, he rocks forward, savoring the friction as well as the press of Jared's thick dick against his own skin as Jared arches beneath him, his hand sliding to the dip of Jensen's spine.

They quickly fall into a rhythm, a slow grind and roll before Jared tips his head back in a low whine and Jensen takes the hint. Their mouths meet to silence a mutual moan and Jensen gets lost in it, his body soon moving of its own accord as he sinks into the sensation.

It's Jared who pulls back first, head falling against the pillow as he drags in a shaky breath and smoothes his hand up the length of Jensen's back, blunt nails digging into skin. "God, Jen. Come on."

Jensen blinks, takes a moment to clear his head before carefully pushing himself up and reaching for the foil packet.

"How long has it been?" he asks, dropping one hand to brush his fingers along the inside of Jared's thigh, nudging him to spread a little wider.

Jared lets out a huff of a breath, lips twisting into a sheepish smile. It's impossible to tell if he's blushing, his cheeks and upper chest already flushed a deep red. "Since you. So... what, about seven years?"

"Jesus," Jensen replies, somehow both surprised and incredibly turned on. "You didn't. I mean. With Gen or just..."

"She wasn't really into that," Jared says. His hand slides down, curling over Jensen's wrist to guide him between Jared's legs. "I've, uh. I've fingered myself before, but. You know. That's about it."

Swallowing tightly, Jensen nods, glances down at where Jared's holding his hand and slowly twists his wrist, one finger grazing along the skin just behind Jared's ball and down lower. With a sigh, Jared loosens his grip and arches his hips in clear invitation.

"Gotta open me up," he says and Jensen glances back up to Jared's face, biting back a groan. Jared grins, a quick flash of dimples before he turns his head and then lets go of Jensen's wrist entirely to grab for the lube, flipping it open with a flick of his thumb. "Here," he says, holding it out. "Give me your hand."

Jensen does so, cupping his hand under the drizzle before quickly spreading the slick over two fingers.

"I'll go slow," he promises and Jared pulls in a breath as Jensen lightly taps a finger against the pucker of skin, smoothing the wetness around before very, very slowly easing it inside.

Jared exhales, a quiet curse falling from his lips as Jensen gradually presses in deeper. After only getting in about halfway, he eases back and then in again, timing it with Jared's breathing while watching the ripple of muscle in Jared's abdomen with every clench. He adds a second finger alongside the first only when he's sure Jared's ready for it. But the resistance is still immediate, Jared seizing slightly at the stretch, though he never tells Jensen to stop.

"Still good?" Jensen asks just to be sure and only gets a soft whine and stilted nod in reply. Turning his wrist a little, he gets a better angle and slides both fingers in, stilling momentarily to gently crook one finger. He knows he's hit what he's aiming for when Jared gasps and goes rigid, both hands gripping at the sheets beneath him.

"Jensen--"

"I got you," Jensen says, smirking as he starts up a new rhythm, opening Jared wider and occasionally nudging deep enough to make Jared shudder again. After a few more slow, easy slides, Jensen slips his fingers free and ignores Jared's subsequent whine as he reaches for the discarded lube. Groaning, Jared shifts as Jensen slicks up a third finger, lifts his right leg up, bent at the knee with his good arm hooked underneath. "Jesus Christ," Jensen breathes in response, mouth dry as he sets the bottle of lube aside and immediately slips a single finger into him again. It slides in easy this time, all the way to the top knuckle.

"Do it, c'mon," Jared says, voice shaky as he bears down. "Hurry up."

With no need for further encouragement, Jensen slips his finger out and uncurls the other two to line up alongside it before slowly easing in again. "God, Jared," Jensen breathes, mesmerized by the sight of Jared's body slowly taking three of his fingers, skin stretched tight around them, glistening with sweat and lube. "So fucking hot, you have no idea. So fucking _tight_."

Jared only answers with another whine, hips circling as Jensen presses in deeper. He isn't surprised when Jared's erection starts fading, just leans forward enough to get his mouth around the tip as he keeps up the rhythm, slowly fucking Jared with his fingers as his mouth sinks lower.

"Oh God," Jared groans and Jensen glances up to see Jared staring down at him. "Oh my God, don't stop."

He laughs at that, the sound muffled around Jared's length before he pulls off with an audible slurp and licks his lips. "Not plannin' on it," he promises before taking him in again, teasing at first, his bottom lip catching against the ridge as his tongue darts over the tip. But then he's swallowing down and thrusting his fingers in deep, making Jared cry out.

"Jensen. Jensen!"

Groaning, Jensen doesn't back down, twisting his wrist gently to alter the angle and hollowing his cheeks. Jared's hips thrust weakly, little jolts that send Jared's cock nudging the back of his throat as he clenches around Jensen's finger and Jensen finally pulls back to suck in a breath of air.

Jared whines, but he almost seems relieved too, muscles relaxing around Jensen's fingers before they're gently pulled them free.

"Please... please tell me you're gonna fuck me now," Jared says, voice rough as he moves a hand up to his cock, not stroking, but cupping himself almost protectively.

Jensen swallows and gives a nod. Says, "Yeah, uhm," as he looks around for the condom. He finds it between his leg and Jared's and fumbles a second with the foil wrapping before slipping it on, latex stretching tight over his skin. He slicks up, indulging himself a little with a few strokes. He's already so hard he's nearly shaking with it and he slides a hand down between Jared's ass and the bed and lifts him a little as he knees in closer. "Slow, okay?" he says and Jared only gives a quick, stilted nod.

Even with the prep, Jared doesn't take him easily. He's tight, tighter than Jensen remembers, and he has to pace himself, slipping in just pass the ring of muscle before stilling, the thumb on one hand petting the inside of Jared's thigh as the other digs into Jared's opposite hip. Gradually, he glides in a little further, maddeningly slowly, feeling Jared tremble and shake as he's slowly impaled.

"Fuck, Jared, I can't-- God, you feel good. So good."

Jared grunts in response and Jensen slips in a little further yet. Sweat stings his eye and he blinks quickly, glances up to see Jared's face pulled tight in a grimace. From pleasure or pain, Jensen really can't tell and he sucks in a sharp breath and forces himself still again.

"No," Jared says immediately, eyes snapping open. "Don't stop."

It's half plea and half demand and Jensen's completely helpless against it, can't do anything but obey, a low, aching whine pushing past his lips as he sinks in, burying himself in the amazingly tight heat of Jared's body.

"Don't stop," Jared groans again, this time definitely more of a plea and Jensen struggles to catch his breath before sliding back, dragging nearly all the way out before thrusting in again, deeper this time, right to the hilt, punching a satisfying gasp from Jared's lungs. And then he's lost in it, in the overwhelming heat and pleasure, the feel of Jared's knees wrapping around his chest and the sound of his every grunt and whimper, the slap of skin on skin and the look of open awe on Jared's face. The muscles in his thighs start to burn and sweat gathers in the crooks of his knees, his arms shaking from holding his weight as his movements become more and more stilted.

" _Jared_ ," he grunts, his voice little more than a whisper as he reaches the breaking point, his hips snapping in harder before slowing to a deep grind. One slow thrust and then another and then he's shattering, pleasure ripping through him as his body folds forward.

When he comes to moments later, Jared's still squirming and panting beneath him, Jensen's name falling from his lips in a mantra.

It takes a few more seconds for Jensen to gather his bearings before he gently eases back, slipping free and making quick work of the condom, tossing it in the general vicinity of the garbage before falling forward again, one hand curling tight around Jared's cock.

"I got you," he says as Jared cries out and grabs hold of his shoulders, pulling him up.

Jared comes the second Jensen's tongue pushes past the seam of his lips, coating Jensen's fingers with jizz, strings of it hitting his chest and stomach. And Jensen milks him through it, swallows down every one of Jared's whimpers. Doesn't let go until Jared reaches down to grab his wrist, eyes still closed.

Jensen can feel the thump of Jared's heartbeat, sweat cooling along his back making him shiver until Jared wraps a weary arm around him and rolls them over, onto Jared's right side. Jensen doesn't fight it, just sits up long enough to drag the covers up over them before sinking into the incredible softness of Jared's mattress.

He falls asleep with his back against Jared's chest and their legs entwined, Jared's arm slung over his chest.

:::

According to the clock on Jared's nightstand, it's only been a couple hours when Jensen wakes up, but his eyeballs are already protesting, dry and scratchy from his contacts. Jared's migrated away in their sleep, stretched out on the other side of the bed with only his fingertips brushing Jensen's back, and Jensen carefully slips out and heads to the bathroom. He uses the toilet and then rinses out his contacts in his mouth before putting them back in. Blinks at himself in the mirror.

His reflection blinks right back.

He looks as well as can be expected: groggy and fucked out, cheeks splotchy and hair a mess. Leaning forward, he turns on the faucet and splashes cold water onto his face and looks again. Droplets cling to his eyelashes and streak down his face, catching in his stubble. He's not sure what he sees in the reflection staring back at him, but he knows what he _feels_. A nearly unfamiliar sense of contentment. Completion. As ridiculous and dramatic as it sounds, like he really could take on the world.

Wiping a towel along the back of his neck, he quirks a smile.

His reflections smiles back.

Jared's still in exactly the same position when Jensen returns, head tilted to one side and mouth open. Sliding in alongside him, Jensen scoots in close and settles a hand on Jared's stomach. He smoothes it up the expanse of Jared's chest, enjoying the freedom to just touch as he pleases, his fingers brushing at flakes of dried come. The rhythm of Jared's breathing gently shifts as he awakens, eyes blinking open as he looks down at Jensen's hand and follows it up to Jensen's face.

"Hey," he says, groggy though a small smile tugs at his lips. "Time is it?"

"'Bout 8:30," Jensen replies, fingertips still tracing small patterns over smooth skin.

"Night or morning?"

Smirking, Jensen says, "Night. It's only been a couple hours."

"Mmm. Just in time for dinner, then," Jared says, groaning softly as he curves his body towards Jensen, reaches out to graze his fingers over Jensen's arm. Their legs brush beneath the covers and Jared smiles lazily.

Jensen sucks in a breath. "I think we should tell them."

"Tell who what?" Jared says, fingertips following the line of Jensen's collarbone.

"Everyone everything. About us."

Jared's touch falters then, lips tugging into a frown as he pulls back slightly. "What?"

"Look if you're gonna do this, we might as well go all the way, right? Go all out."

Jared blinks, frown deepening as he sits up, covers bunching around his waist. Pulling in a sigh, Jensen follows his lead. He feels remarkably calm about the decision, though he figures some of that may be residual post-sex haze. Either way, it's nice. Maybe it'll last for awhile.

"Jensen, you. No. You can't be serious."

"You really think I'd joke about this?"

"You could lose your _job_ ," Jared argues, voice kicking up a notch, but Jensen only shrugs and gives a small smile.

"Actually, the last time I did something like this, I got promoted."

Jared looks like he wants to argue, but his words are apparently stuck, mouth hanging open and Jensen can't help but laugh.

"You're right, I know," he says, reaching out to brush a finger along the back of Jared's hand, "I could lose my job. You could lose yours. This could be the end of both our careers, but... I don't know, man. I keep talking about how I came out so I could stop hiding and lying all the time. But honestly? That's a lot easier said than done. It's been four years and I _still_ feel like I'm constantly lying, either to the other coaches or the guys on the team or the media. To _myself_."

Jared still doesn't say a word. And he doesn't stop frowning, studying Jensen carefully like he's trying to make sense of the words coming out of Jensen's mouth. And Jensen can't blame him; it's a complete one-eighty from his stance only hours before.

But it's amazing what can change in that amount of time.

And what can stay exactly the same in the span of a decade.

Jensen gives a quiet smile and curls his hand around Jared's wrist. "So how 'bout we just... I dunno. Drop back and throw a long one towards the end zone. See what happens."

Jared's frown cracks then, melts away into a cautious, but warm smile Jensen feels down to his toes. When Jared leans in, his nose brushing against Jensen's cheek, he whispers, "Okay. Yeah. Let's go for it."

:::

He wakes up tangled in Jared's sheets the next morning, bed empty. Rubbing a palm over his face, he hears the shower in the bathroom shut off and moments later, Jared pads out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and tousled. His skin is tinged a faint red from the warm water, droplets sliding down his neck and over his shoulders and Jensen lets himself drink in the sight.

"Hey, you're up," Jared says, approaching the bed. Jensen gives a quiet grunt in reply. "You want breakfast?"

"Coffee," Jensen replies, sucking in a breath as he strips the sheets off his lap and drops his feet to the floor.

Jared chuckles and reaches out to grab Jensen by the wrist before he can even think about heading to the bathroom. "I can fry up some bacon if you want. Maybe some eggs?"

"Long as there's coffee, I really don't care," Jensen says, managing a hint of a grin before Jared breaks into a wider smile and pulls him in for a light kiss.

"You and your coffee, dude," he says, tone fond. "Sometimes I think I should be jealous."

Jensen hums faintly, his body momentarily swaying into Jared's warmth. Jared still hasn't brushed his teeth, but Jensen can't find it in himself to care. "I'm grabbing a shower," he finally says when he's gotten ahold of himself again, lightly running his hand along the skin of Jared's belly as he heads for the bathroom. "And stealing your shampoo."

"Oh, you'll like it; it smells like mango!"

Jensen smirks as he lifts the lid of the toilet. "Of course it does."

He takes a quick shower and dresses, donning his boxers and jeans from the day before and stealing a shirt from Jared's closet. The smell of coffee and bacon lures him downstairs and he finds Jared in a pair of shorts, hovering over the stove and carefully plucking strips of bacon one by one from the frying pan with a pair of tongs.

Jensen slides up behind him, one hand falling to Jared's hip as he brushes a kiss over Jared's hurt shoulder. It's been awhile since he's had a morning like this, warm and comfortable and _right_. Memories of the night before roll over him in a slow wave and Jensen's surprised by how unafraid he is even now, in the harsh light of morning.

"Good timing," Jared tells him and Jensen only hums a reply, lips grazing Jared's smooth skin once more before he steps back to grab the coffee pot.

His cell phone is lying on the counter by the empty mug, e-mail light blinking steadily. Jensen picks it up and swipes his thumb over the screen, stares down at the wallpaper of his two smiling nephews.

Without another thought, he presses 2 on his speed dial and wanders a few steps away, rests back against the edge of the counter with one arm crossed over his chest.

"Dude, it's not even 8:00," comes his brother's reply on the other end. "You dying?"

Ignoring the remark, Jensen says, "You and Allie have plans for dinner tonight?"

"What? Why?"

"I wanna take you guys out. The boys, too. You free?"

"Uhm. I think so. I'll need to check with the wife first. You're not seriously dying, are you?"

Jensen manages a laugh then glances over to watch Jared suck grease off the pad of his thumb. "I'm not dying. But I do have something I need to tell you." Jared looks up then, eyebrow raised and Jensen feels a sudden rush under his skin, excitement and fear in equal amounts, heartbeat kicking up a notch. "Something important," he adds and Jared blinks at him, lips twitching into a slow, knowing smile that goes straight to Jensen's core, warming him from the inside.

This is it. All or nothing.

 **end.**


End file.
